#Could chef be considered a whumper

[pyrepostings]

workplace whump: restaurants

regularly using sharp knives means sooner or later you're going to draw your own blood

Dull knives can also hurt you and worse (take care of your knives)

Ticket stabbers are sharp and a real pain in the hand to slam your hand onto

Some of the worst kitchen injures I see online and in person come from mandolin slicers (likely because the blade never gets sharpened properly)

Regularly using fire means sooner or later you're going to burn yourself

Burning yourself through a wet spot on the towel you grab a pan from the oven with

Grabbing a metal bowl that was left on the flat top that you didn't know was on the flat top with full force and dropping the bowl full of food on the ground and also burning your hand in the process

Hot oil splashing at your face

Dipping your entire hand into the hot fryer (I don't know how this guy has survived till now either but he did do it a second time apparently. Coworkers that should get their own whump prompt post)

Standing all day

Hot as fuck kitchen with minimal air circulation meaning the entire room is hot and humid and you have to wear long black pants, black sleeved shirt, and a hat (Healthcode+dress code)

Exhaustion. Imagine working 10+ hours 5 days a week and then on Sunday being required to work a double on your day off cutting your weekend in half and the one remaining day being spent at your parents house to spend mother's day (because you weren't there yesterday. Because mothers day is a restraunt holiday. Which means you work more not less) so good luck finding time to relax or get chores done before jumping in to another busy week.

Finding things you didn't know could break skin: tin foil seal edges of oil bottles. Edges of sufficiently fucked up cambros that should have been replaced a year ago. Freezer doors where the plastic has chipped off.

Hungry. Stealing food. Figuring out what food is safe to steal. Never eating more than a mouthful at a time. Chef gives you a mistakenly made side Mac and cheese. It's slightly cold but it's the best thing you've ever tasted. By the time you can actually finish it, it's been stone cold for three hours (deluge of tickets ringing in)

Banging your head on the pots and pans hanging up by the sinks.

Shucking oysters means shucking your own hand on occasion (record here is needing 7 stitches I think) don't be stupid with a shucker it's sharper than it looks.

Contracting something from sticking your hand in the dirty silverware bucket.

Stabbing yourself by sticking your hand in the dirty silverware bucket.

[brainrotlesbian]

A valentine’s dinner date

CW: creepy/intimate whumper, bound and gagged whumpee TW: explicit noncon

Celeste smiled up from her food, a small dish of caviar, glancing at her date from across the table. He squirmed in his seat, obviously nervous. As he should be, he was dining with the empress. He wasn’t eating, and she frowned.

“Not hungry, darling?” she asked, setting her spoon down. “What’s the matter?”

“Mmmff.” He squirmed more, twisting his wrists against the ropes that bound them to the back of the chair.

He chewed on the ball gag in his mouth, wincing as the straps dug into the corners of his mouth, drool leaking down his chin. She cracked a smile. He was so cute like this.

“It’s rude to not eat something you’ve been served,” she continued. “It’s just caviar. It’s very expensive. Try a little bit of it, don’t waste it.”

He stared at her, tears gathering in his eyes. “Mm—mmm!” He pulled on his restraints, leaning forward to try to break the bonds.

She clicked her tongue. “My love, you’re being rude! Think about the chef. You don’t want to upset him do you?”

He blinked, tears sliding down his cheeks, then shook his head. She grinned.

“There’s a good boy,” she said. “You’re incredibly privileged right now, you know. To dine on such expensive food with me.”

His shoulders twisted as he struggled, still unable to break his bonds. She sighed and pushed herself back from the table, making her way over to him. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him a disapproving scowl. He looked up at her, tears sliding down his face and a small amount of drool leaking out from his lower lip.

“Mmm—mmmfff…”

Celeste ignored him and instead grabbed his face, forcing him to turn his head up to her. He whimpered softly.

“Do you not appreciate what I do for you?” she hissed, gripping his cheeks tight. “I could throw you back onto the streets; you’re nothing but a lowly peasant. You should learn to appreciate the gifts I give you, you ungrateful man.”

She slapped him across the face, hard, then whipped around to face the servants at the entrance. “Bring him to my chambers, and prepare him for me. He needs to earn his meals from now on,” she ordered, then stormed out of the room.

Mathias found himself laying nude on Celeste’s bed, spread eagle, with his wrists and ankles chained to the bedposts. The ball gag was still firmly secured in his mouth, causing him to drool uncontrollably on the sheets. He’d struggled for a few minutes after being secured, then realized he wouldn’t be able to free himself, so he simply lay limp on the bed, waiting. Waiting for whatever inevitable torture she had concocted for him.

The door slammed open and he watched her stagger in, her face flushed, with a glass of wine in her hand. His heart sank.

He watched as she stumbled to her nightstand and set the glass on it. She giggled as she flipped onto the bed.

“You— hic! You look so cute!” She trailed her finger down his stomach to his crotch.

His eyes widened as she gripped her hand around his cock and squeezed, prompting a muffled squeal from him. She laughed and squeezed again. His fists clenched as she repeated this, laughing louder each time. He couldn’t stop squirming and squealing with every movement.

After a few moments of this, she stopped and stood back up. He shifted on the bed as much as the restraints would allow, watching as she allowed her robe to drop to the floor, leaving her nude as well. He watched, helplessly, as she crawled back onto the bed, straddling his chest with both legs.

“I think you should apologize for your disgraceful behavior at dinner,” she said. “I’m ashamed, boy, truly. You should make it up to me.”

“Mmph?”

“Eat me out, then maybe I’ll consider letting you breathe.” She turned herself around, then sat down firmly on his face.

“Mmmm!” He squirmed and mewled under her, gasping as her body crushed him.

Then he felt her hands gripping his cock again, and he sobbed as she began stimulating him. He was in for a rough night.

[whumpitisthen]

I like one very specific thing, which is Whumper locking the door after they enter the room Whumpee is kept in and wanted to expand upon i just a slight bit so:

Here's some fun ways to signal that pain is coming Whumpee's way (a ramble):

So in spot no.1 we got what inspired this post, which is the mental image of a Whumpee watching Whumper come in, then promptly lock the door behind them. It signals danger, it makes them feel even more stuck, so helpless. And the best part is that it signals that Whumper won't be leaving any time soon. When that door is locked, it means that it is time to hurt and I really can't explain any more why I have such an obsessive love for a locked door so utterly cutting Whumpee off from any hope of getting out of that room. Please consider the implications of something so simple and ponder on it for me

Another good signal is an alarm, or a specific time. Say Whumpee gets to endure horrific torture every day, but they are free to do whatever until that dreaded 7 pm comes when Whumper comes for them. They might have an alarm set up, which, if they ever manage to get away will haunt them for the rest of their life; or they might not, and they might not even know that it's already time before Whumper shows up out of nowhere and Whumpee gets this incredible expression of horror on their face and goes "Is it already time?" Chef's kiss, give me ten

We love our non-human characters and I specifically love non-human whumpers, so perhaps the signal for a whumpee who has the misfortune of being this terrifying Whumper's favourite is a quiver in the air when a supernatural all-powerful whumper enters Whumpee's home. A pressure on their body, a chill down their spine that comes right back up, a noise in their ears they can't get rid of, whispering in their mind. Hallucinations, inexplicable panic, a very specific smell, a distortion of their vision, the feeling of being watched, the feeling of another in the room though they are supposed to be alone, a feather/scale/puddle/literally whatever part of Whymper in the middle of their living room floor, the list goes on and on! I think we as a community should have more eldritch horror whumpers, it's got so much untapped potential and I for one could finally relate fully to the whumper as I am also a creature unbeknownst and inconceivable to mortals with a fondness for pretty little pathetic men crying on my floor :)

Oh here's a good one: Whumpee receives the signal from another person. "Whumper seems pretty frustrated." "Have you seen how angry Whumper got this afternoon? They looked about ready to kill." "Whumper wanted me to tell you they are waiting for you in their office." "Whumper keeps nagging me about you all the time. Why are they so obsessed with you today?" "I'm kind of worried about how long Whumper has been in their room for. I think you should check on them." Now doesn't all that sound just wonderful for out dear Whumpee, anxiously debating on whether they are going to survive today or not.

Of course, who's better to give the signal than Whumper themself? They could have a word they have taught Whumpee means nothing good. They could act a certain way, perhaps much too friendly or intimate, touching them, keeping them close. Maybe they don't even mean to send a signal, but Whumpee catches it anyway. That telltale glint in their eyes. The way they keep staring at them. Whenever they seem bored, frustrated, excited. When they call Whumpee's name in a specific tone that has an underlying want in it. Biting their lips a lot. Anything you can think of.

Rewards! When Whumpee recieves a reward, they know they are in for a bad time. I mean, they have to earn their luxuries, right? If they think they can just have that blanket or water without earning it it's really their fault for thinking that in the first place. Extra points if the reward isn't actually a good thing. Maybe Whumper got their Whumpee a new collar, or a new toy to try out on them, or they graciously helped them stay awake like Whumper told them to by electrocuting the hell out of them all night, and Whumpee dares to not even thank them?

And that is about as much as my brain can think of right now its late. If you wanna use any of these you are free to ofc though this isn't even a prompt list, more of just me rambling about tropes

Also the numbered list thing fucks with the readmore so i hereby apologize to anyone who will have to scroll past this seventy times on phone i legit cannot put one in there unless i wanna cut off the entire list and leave the first paragraph only. If it makes you feel any better I will also have to scroll past this

[hurting-fictional-people]

Abduction

Meet Kiara and Blake, the OCs I created just to have faces and some kind of a story for the whump scenarios I create in my head ;)

You can find their future here

CW: stalking, kidnapping, whumper pov, noncon touching, gun and knife mention, just general creepiness, drugging mention, death threats

She was nothing like he had expected. 

The description he’d been given was fitting enough – red hair, medium height, lithe figure –, but left out all the important things. He couldn’t see her face clearly from the rooftop of the building across her street – she really shouldn’t live next to a building that offered such an unobstructed view of her living room and kitchen –, but he could see her. 

She was baking something. She had the money to hire as many chefs as she wanted to cook her anything she could ever dream of, and still, she was wearing a polka dot apron and had her hands buried deep in a bowl full of some kind of paste. He knew she had a small confectionery business, but never stopped to consider that she might be the one who actually did the baking. 

That was not what he expected from a rich girl with a bank account almost the size of his own. Not the medium-sized apartment, not the lazily tied up hair, and definitely not the simplicity she emanated. Especially because simplicity usually bored him to death, but in her it made him intrigued. Curious. Made him want to see what laid underneath that serenity she radiated even from so many meters away.

He was supposed to shoot as soon as he laid his eyes on her. That was the job: get your eyes on the girl, shoot, leave. Leave her body for her girlfriend to find. He knew what he had to do, yet he’d been watching the girl bake for at least two hours now. 

At first, he waited because he wanted to see what she was baking and if it would be any good. Now that she put it in the oven, he was waiting because he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She was… dancing. Fluid, carefree movements, spinning around her kitchen, jumping up and down, rolling her head from side to side, front to back, like the music he couldn’t hear from there was pulling the strings and she was just letting her body go with it. 

I want to be the one pulling the strings.

The assassin shook his head at the thought. No. He was there to kill the girl. But, well, he could at least enjoy the view until the time came, right? He had the entire day to get the job done, and even though sitting on cold cement with nowhere to lean on was pretty uncomfortable, weirdly, he wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else. Apart from inside her apartment, that is.

She went on dancing, completely oblivious of the man watching her every move with hunger in his eyes. He liked it, her innocence. 

When she stopped, panting but with a smile so big he could see it from there, he was surprised to find himself upset. Firstly, because he truly liked her dancing, but mostly because he wanted to see that smile. The creases it would form near her eyes, the droplets of sweat that probably covered her face, find out if she had dimples. He wanted to see it all.

She entered a room he couldn’t see into, but before he could get too restless, she showed up again wearing denim shorts, an oversized shirt, and wet hair. Fuck, he wanted to have seen her taking that shower.

The girl bent down to take whatever it was she baked from the oven and stood up holding a tray with what was obviously a chocolate cake. The assassin wet his lips, suddenly hungry, even though he hated chocolate. 

He had been sent a few pictures of her – leaving the market, reading by her window, kissing her girlfriend. The assassin knew she was gorgeous, knew what she looked like, but suddenly he had the overwhelming need to see her. See the exact color of her eyes, uncover each little expression, find out if her voice was silvery or smoky, what it sounded like when she screamed. When she begged. What she looked like when she was in pain. Would she shut her eyes and hide away the hurt? Would she spit and thrash? Would she submit, hoping it would make it end sooner? Oh, how he wanted to find out.

The sun rose in the sky, then went down. She cooked some vegetables for lunch, read a book, watched tv, baked another cake, this one a lot bigger, clearly for a client. Ate the one she baked sooner. All the while, he watched her. His back hurt and his stomach growled, but he never moved, too fascinated to look away. 

He wanted to meet her. Talk to her. He couldn’t kill her before he had a chance to do it. The assassin had never felt like this before, so utterly captivated he couldn’t bring himself to just finish the job. 

He would do what he went there to do, probably, but after an entire day watching her, he would not kill her in such an impersonal way. If he was going to go through with it, he wanted to feel the life leaving her body, hold her while she whined and cried, whispering soothing lies till the life left her eyes. He wanted her, even if it was just for a little bit.

And he always got what he wanted. Even if he had to take it himself.

 -

“Hey baby,” Kiara said, holding her cell phone between her shoulder and her ear while she gave the cake the finishing touches. “What time do you get here?”

“Maybe in an hour?” Amelia answered, sounding annoyed. “I can’t wait to see you, Kie, my day was terrible.”

“Wait a second”, she said, letting the phone slide to her hand to put it on speaker mode. Time to put the cake in the fridge. “I’m back. What happened?”

“Well, neither my boss nor my clients got particularly happy when I quit, so I had to spend the entire day solving problems and talking to people. I’m gonna need a big, nice chocolate cake when I get there to make me feel better”

Kiara laughed while she took the dishes to the sink. “You’re a lucky girl, babe. Or maybe I’m a really good girlfriend”.

“Have I already told you how much I love you?” Amelia crooned, suddenly in a much better mood. Kiara laughed even louder. “I might be there in thirty minutes then”.

“Oh, hold on, I think I heard someone knocking on the door,” Kiara said, already cleaning her hands on the dishcloth.

“It’s okay, I have to call another client before leaving anyway”, Amy sighed. “See you in a bit, babe,” she said before ending the call. 

Kiara smiled at the phone. It was so Amelia to say goodbye and not wait for an answer. She chuckled as she strode to the door. She wasn’t waiting for anyone other than Amelia, but her downstairs neighbor had the bad habit of knocking to complain about her making too much noise even when she didn’t. She took a deep breath as she opened the door.

“Hey Mr. Williams, I – “

She halted. The person standing there was most definitely not Mr. Williams. 

A tall, handsome man smirked at her, looking her up and down in a way that made her furrow her brows and close the door a little, till all she could see was his face.

“Hi, can I help you?” 

“Hello,” he said in a husky voice that would’ve been attractive if it wasn’t accompanied by a wolfish grin. “Are you Kiara?”

“Who’s asking?”

He laughed then, and it changed his whole face. His’s angular features softened as he chuckled, his green eyes gleamed. Even his body language changed as he leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t seem that much older than her. Maybe 27, 28 years old. Silky dark hair, a gray shirt that hugged his large biceps, expansive looking trousers. Still, she kept her hand tight on the door handle, feet apart as Amelia had taught her.

“I’m Blake,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t offer any more answers.

“Why are you looking for Kiara?” she knew better than to tell a stranger who she was, even if he knew that was her apartment. 

“I’m a friend of her girlfriend” Blake stated, those grass-colored eyes piercing into her uncomfortably “Amelia said I could come here if I needed something.”

“Well, Amelia never mentioned someone called Blake” she replied, narrowing her eyes. 

Blake only smiled again, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Kiara.”

Shit. She hadn’t had the intention of admitting who she was. Kiara clenched her teeth and raised her chin higher, looking him up and down the way he did with her.

“So, why are you at my door, Blake?”

“My car broke a couple of blocks from here, and Amelia had said I could come over if I ever needed anything,” he said, biting on his lip “But I get it. She has never mentioned me, and I can see you wouldn’t be comfortable letting me in. Could you at least lend me your phone so I can call a friend to come and pick me up? My battery died.”

Kiara pursed her lips, looked at him again. She couldn’t remember Amelia mentioning someone named Blake, but she sometimes tuned out when she was baking and her girlfriend was talking. She might have mentioned him before, and Kiara just wasn’t paying attention. Besides, she was at her home and Amy would be there in a few minutes. 

Sighing, Kiara took a step back as she opened the door. “Come in, you can wait here for your friend. Amelia will be here soon.”

Not very subtle, she thought to herself, but at least he knew they wouldn’t be alone for long.

Blake’s eyes sparkled as he walked in, looking around at her apartment. If was full of plants, everything in earthy colors. She was pretty proud of it, since she had thrifted most of the furniture and painted it herself.

While he called his friend, Kiara politely turned around and placed the chocolate cake on the table, as well as two plates. Once he’d finished the call, she pointed at the cake “I baked it today. Want a bite?” 

She had never seen someone so eager to eat something she’d baked but decided to see it as a compliment instead of recognizing the hint of wariness that sparkled in her chest.

“So, where do you know Amelia from?” she asked, in between bites. 

“I work at a company in the same area as hers,” he said, leaning back on the chair “The cake is heavenly, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she said with a slight grin. “You are from a rival company then, is that what you’re saying?”

“It is” Blake smirked. “Heard she quit recently.”

“Yeah, she is planning on moving in with me and said that her job took way too much of her time.”

He raised both eyebrows but said nothing in response. Kiara cleared her throat and took the plates to the sink, desperate for something to do with her hands. Blake had this penetrating gaze that left her unnerved.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” he asked suddenly.

“Not at all, It’s the door to the right.” 

As soon as he closed the door, she grabbed her phone and texted Amelia. 

hey, blake’s here. and since when do you offer my house to your friends?? jk, you can do it whenever you want. i’d just like a heads up next time

“I didn’t know you wear eyeglasses,” Blake said as he came back, holding her glasses. Kiara furrowed her brow. She must have left them in the bathroom again.

“Yeah, I’m nearsighted.” 

He hummed, staring at the object. Kiara blinked, taken aback by his behavior. Who the fuck grabbed the glasses of someone they barely knew from their bathroom and proceeded on scrutinizing them?

“Um… If you could give them back” she asked, extending her hand.

“It fits you” Blake declared, looking up at her “Wearing glasses. It fits the peaceful vibe.”

“Well, I don’t need to wear them often, so…” she babbled, taking it from his hands with a grimace. Weird man.

“I made you uncomfortable” he stated. She just stared at him. Yes, he had, be he also hadn’t apologized for it. Blake watched her just as intensely as she watched him before finally turning around and walking across the living room, examining the books she kept on the center table, her furry rug, the green couch. “When did you say Amelia was coming, again?”

“In a few minutes” she answered, baffled. He walked around as if that was his house, and it was starting to piss her off. “I’ll ask her.”

She went back to her cell, annoyed, and found that there were several messages from Amy already waiting for her.

What? Who’s Blake?

I’ve never offered your house to anyone

Wait.

Kiara, please tell me you’re not talking about Blake Thorne

Kiara??????

“Hey, I know it’s kind of a weird question, but what’s your surname?” Kiara asked, fear already clawing at her stomach. “It’s just that Amy knows more than one Blake and is asking which one you are” she finished with a weak smile she hoped he thought was just friendly.

“It’s Thorne” he crooned, smirking. 

She nodded, as innocently as she could, as she typed with slightly trembling fingers.

he said that’s his name. who’s blake thorne? you’re scaring me

The answer came immediately.

Fuck. Can you leave discreetly?

I don’t think so, Kiara typed, her heart already pounding, Amy what’s going on??

I’ll be there in 5. He’s dangerous, Kie, stay as far away from him as you can

Kiara bit her lip and took a deep breath. She didn’t know who the fuck that guy was or why he was dangerous, but now that she had confirmation, she could almost feel the wrongness emanating from him. 

“Is everything okay?” Blake asked, standing right in front of her. Kiara jumped and let out a startled shriek.

“Fuck, you scared me,” she said, taking a step back “You walk very quietly.”

“It’s a part of the job,” he shrugged, his eyes piercing into her yet again. As if he could see the fear she was trying so hard to conceal.

“Walking like a ghost is a part of working with finances?”

Blake grinned, amused. “I guess it is.”

She wanted to ask him what the hell did that mean, but it might sound too suspicious. Kiara straightened her shoulders and smiled placidly “Would you like another slice of cake?”

“Thank you, sunshine, but I’m good.”

“Sunshine?” Blake only shrugged again. She clenched her teeth and backed away till she was right next to the cutlery drawer “Well, I think I do.”

Trying to move as calmly as she could, Kiara grabbed the biggest knife she could find.

“Did Amelia recognize my last name?” he asked, a dangerous glint to his eyes.

“She did” Kiara replied, fighting to keep her voice from faltering “Said she would be here any time now, Amy can’t wait to see you.”

Her eyes met Blake’s, and in the instant they stared at each other, she saw it. He knew she was bluffing as well as she knew he wasn’t who he claimed to be. Kiara clenched the knife and lifted it between them. 

“Do you have the habit of threatening all your guests with a knife or am I just that special?” Even though his words should sound worried, he smiled, looking utterly entertained.

“Stay away from me” she hissed.

“Did your girlfriend even tell you who I am?”

“She didn’t have to tell me you’re an asshole for me to know it. You have this jerk vibe going on.”

Blake chuckled and took a step closer. Kiara stepped back, raising the knife. “I’ll stab you if I have to. Don’t come any closer.” He didn’t even blink at the threat.

“Do you even know how to use that knife, Kiara? I’m betting you’re more likely to cut yourself than me”

“We’ll find it out if you don’t stay the fuck away” she bellowed.

Amelia had taught her the basics of self-defense, but she had no doubts that the guy could take her down with a flick of his fingers. 

Kiara didn’t have time to do anything before he pounced on her. One moment he was casually walking towards her, the next he was way too close, and she felt the ground being swiped from under her feet. Her back hit the floor with a loud thud and a sharp pain, but Kiara didn’t hesitate to blindly swing the knife towards him. Blood surfaced from a cut to his bicep, and she struck again. This time, though, Blake grabbed her wrist and smashed it against the ground with all his strength. Kiara whimpered through gritted teeth but didn’t let go. 

Blake snarled, lifted her wrist, and slammed it on the floor again, then once more. And it hurt. On the fourth time, there was nothing she could do but let go. It wasn’t even a conscious choice. Her fingers simply opened against her will. 

She wasn’t completely out of weapons, though. Taking a deep breath, Kiara opened her mouth to scream as loudly as she could. However, before any sound left her throat, Blake’s other hand grabbed her cheeks and pressed with so much force she was sure it would leave bruises. Startled, she hesitated.

“Scream and I kill you right now,” he whispered. Kiara didn’t want to, but she believed him. She could see the truth of his words written in his eyes. 

She thrashed under his weight, but Blake was too big, too strong, and when she dug her fingertips into the cut she’d given him, he squeezed her injured wrist and stole all of the air from her lungs. Something wrapped around her neck and squeezed, and the world went black.

“… away from her!” someone shouted. It made her heart quicken, and a low whine escaped her lips. 

A burst of low laughter followed the voice that made her heart pound. It always did, that silky voice, but now it was strained, scared. 

“Take a step closer and I slit her throat”. That voice sent a chill down her spine, made her force her eyes open. 

“What do you want?” Amelia. That was definitely Amelia.

Kiara opened her eyes to a blurry world at first, only shapes and colors. She had to blink a few times for it to make sense. She was in her apartment. Amy was standing by the door, holding a gun. 

Holding a gun?

Kiara’s head snapped up. 

It took her a moment to remember what had happened. What was happening. Blake. She could still feel his hands pressing some point of her neck that made her pass out, even though they weren’t there anymore. Amelia. The knife. Her wrist, which she didn’t know how badly was injured, only that the adrenalin already pumping through her system numbed the pain a bit.

“Amy” she moaned, trying to get to her girlfriend. She couldn’t, though. Some kind of fabric was keeping her wrists bound together behind her back, besides the large arm wrapped around her, holding her still. Looking down, she found herself sitting on Blake’s lap. “What… let me go!”

“Hush, Kiara,” he said, tightening his hold around her “The adults are talking.”

“What do you want, Blake?” Amelia gritted through clenched teeth. She glanced at Kiara, fear badly hidden in her eyes, before returning her gaze to Blake.

“You know, your boss was not pleased when you quit,” he said. Kiara jerked in his grip, but suddenly she felt something sharp pressing against her throat and froze. “Move and I’ll slit your throat,” he hissed. “Now, back to business. Your leaving left many clients quite troubled. You should’ve known better, Amelia. You don’t just quit in our line of work”

“Why are you here?” Amy grit out angrily, but her eyes flicked to Kiara again, pleading, alarmed, as if she already knew the answer. 

“You know why. I came here to kill your girlfriend.” A frightened whimper escaped Kiara’s throat and her entire body stiffened. “They paid me a whole lot of money for it. Someone truly wants you to hurt.”

“Please” Kiara whispered, her throat touching the cold metal of the knife as the word left her trembling lips.

Blake’s chest vibrated against her back in a silent chuckle. “Say that again.” 

“Please” she repeated, straining to control her hitching breaths “Please, please, d-don’t kill me.”

The knife touched her neck again, and Kiara leaned back to get away from its sharp point, pressing her back against the man’s chest. He held her tighter but didn’t close the distance she put between her neck and the knife.

“I was going to do it” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. “But you know, you are way too interesting for me to kill like that, little Kiara. I might just let you live.”

She shuddered, hope and dread mixing inside of her. In front of her, Amelia’s grasp on the gun tightened, but she didn’t dare to move.

“I think I’m going to keep you” Blake announced, his lips brushing her temple. A tear trailed down her cheek.

She was so terrified she could barely think, but amidst all the terror, at least she could look at Amelia. The girl who held her entire heart, who she loved so fiercely. It broke her heart, though, to see her golden skin pale and her brown eyes wide with fear. 

“Please, Blake” her girlfriend choked out, looking somewhere above Kiara’s head “I’ll do anything. Just let her go.”

“Do you know what Amelia’s line of work actually is, Kiara?” Blake asked as if she hadn’t said anything. 

She could only stare at Amelia, confused, searching for answers in eyes that wouldn’t look into hers. 

“Amy?” she called in a quivering, confused voice.

She had never seen her girlfriend like that. Amelia was always so sure of everything, so strong, even when she was sad or angry, she was never that hopeless. But this time, when their gazes met, there was only sorrow inside the eyes of the woman she loved.

“I’m so sorry, Kie” Amelia breathed “I wish I could’ve told you, but it wasn’t safe. I wanted to keep you away from… this.”

She would have shaken her head if there wasn’t a knife to her throat. “I don’t understand.”

“She kills people for a living,” Blake said, cheerfully. “That’s her actual job. Was, at least. Amelia here thought she could just quit and never look back.”

Kiara’s heart missed a beat, too stunned to do anything other than stare at Amelia with wide, baffled eyes.

Deny it, she pleaded silently, tell me he is lying. 

But she didn’t. That stunning woman who Kiara had sworn so many times to love eternally, just pursed her lips and looked away. Even Kiara’s tears dried at that. How – how could that be true? 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Amelia said, glancing at her, not nearly for enough time for Kiara to reorganize her thoughts before her girlfriend looked back at the man holding her still “I’ll pay you double whatever it is you were offered for her, and then we’ll disappear. They’ll never know you didn’t finish the job.”

He sighed, his warm breath tickling Kiara’s neck. “It’s a nice proposition. But I’ll have to pass it. I’ve found something far more precious than money I already have.” 

Kiara winced as he rubbed his chin against her hair.

“Blake –“ Amelia started, but he was already standing up, lifting Kiara along with him.

“Put the gun on the ground” he ordered, pressing the knife to Kiara’s throat till it nicked the skin and a drop of blood trailed down. Amelia stared deep into Kiara’s eyes for a moment before dropping the weapon. “Good girl”, Blake mocked.

Kiara stared at Amelia, the pain of the betrayal even bigger than the fear. She hoped she could see it in her eyes, the one thought repeating over and over inside her head. You lied to me. They were still staring at each other when something shifted behind Kiara and she felt a prick on her neck. The world swayed, someone shouted, and suddenly, there was nothing at all.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

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.