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whumping-every-day · 5 years

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Vampire Whump 9: Healing

I still cannot believe the support this series has garnered. My deepest thanks to each and every one of you for your patience!

Content Warnings for this one: Questionable medical know-how, muzzles, reluctant caretaking, dehumanization, the briefest allusion to/mention of sexual assault. (nothing graphic, it’s a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of deal).

Masterlist

The water is warm, trickling down the vampire’s shoulders. Callum dunks the sponge back into the bucket, just like he’s been doing for the past fifteen minutes, but the vampire still flinches.

It’s on its knees, still naked, and the creature shivers as the water cools. It’s filthy, it knows; its skin is coated in a sticky layer of grime and sweat and blood. It smells, too, like piss and death and stale terror. It doesn’t understand why the hunter is touching it. It doesn’t understand why anyone would touch it.

At this point, the creature has begun to wonder if the hunter has well and truly lost his mind. It’s not supposed to wonder anything, it knows, and it tries not to. But sometimes, when the man does such strange things… sometimes it’s hard.

Only a madman would bring a vampire into the comfort of his home, leave it unrestrained, and then try to bathe it.

The vampire is shivering, but there’s a certain level of disconnection between the creature and its body. Compliance has earned it mercy until now, but punishment will come soon, and right now the hunter is touching it.

For the moment, though, it’s almost like the man isn’t trying to hurt it. But that is blasphemous. Every touch the vampire can remember has always brought it pain. It remembers Callum’s hands on it the day before, wrenching and pulling and shoving, and it feels sick.

“Hmm. We’re going to have to cut this, I think.” The hunter reaches up and slides his fingers into its hair, and it’s so sudden that the vampire cries out in blind panic and recoils. It’s been grabbed like this before – foreign hands gripping its hair, holding it down, pulling and wrenching and yanking. The vampire’s hair is matted and filthy, and when it shies away, Callum’s fingers get caught in the knots. Its scalp lights up with pain, and the far too familiar sensation hurtles the creature into a flashback.

The sense-memory floods its awareness without warning, and abruptly it’s held aloft, chains digging into every limb, agony eating into its face. In real time, the vampire gives a bitten-off cry and lurches forward on its knees. It doesn’t even notice as the hunter yanks his hand back, cursing colorfully, a few brown strands caught in his fingers. It’s quick; one moment the creature is tense but stationary, and the next all it can sense is the surrounding crowds, and the violent, unrelenting passage of day and night, and the burning— burning, burning, it would never stop burning, and the hands on it would never relent, not until they’d consumed every last part of it –

“Whoa, hey!” Callum’s heart has kicked into overdrive at the vampire’s sudden movement, but it doesn’t even seem like the creature is seeing him.

Instead it whimpers and gags on the next inhale, cowering in place, and its gasps for air are only getting thinner. It can feel the memory of the sun, burning its skin off layer by layer as the assembled humans watch, as they laugh. It can taste the blood from screaming too loud for too long, and it can taste the helplessness when the screaming stopped but the pain didn’t.

There’s a sudden, sharp blow to its cheek, and the vampire abruptly snaps back into the present. It’s wheezing on every inhale, head turned to the side. The hunter is crouched across from it, one hand extended. It shudders and gasps, feeling the echoing memory of being burned alive.

“Hey. Hey, yeah, there you go.” The hunter’s talking, but the vampire feels like it’s spinning in wild circles, nothing to hold it down. “Hey bud, try and focus on me, okay? You’re right here. They’re not… You’re not there anymore. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The air feels like sandpaper as the vampire cowers, and it whimpers a pathetic apology. Only some of the words make sense. It feels like it’s trembling from the inside out, like its core has decided to shake apart.

It registers only belatedly that the hunter has finally struck it, and of all the things, the vampire is grateful. It is used to much harsher correction than an open hand.

“You back with me, bud?” The man’s low baritone has the vampire shrinking inwards again. “Hey, little bat. I need to know if you’re hearing me. Nod yes if you are, okay?” It’s phrased strangely, but there’s an order cloaked within the words, and the creature quickly jerks its head in a nod. “Okay, good. That’s good.”

The vampire does not dare look any higher than the hunter’s knees, and when Callum crouches down it cringes away.

It knows its place, it does. It doesn’t need to be reminded.

“Easy,” the hunter murmurs. “I don’t know where you went, kid, but it’s over now.” There’s silence for a moment, and the vampire quivers and waits. “… I have to finish washing you,” the hunter says, apparently deciding that he’s waited long enough. “Nod if you understand.”

Sometimes, it’s easier to disappear into its own head. The vampire understands that the question isn’t really a question, and even if it was, there would only be one answer to give.

The human is careful with it, and the creature is grateful. But it still goes fuzzy and glassy-eyed as Callum returns to sponging the filth and dirt off its skin.

By the time Callum is finished, the vampire’s skin is three shades lighter, the water in the bucket is nearly black, and there are spots of fresh blood beading up around its neck and wrists. It’s not perfectly clean, but it’s clean enough that the abuse is starker, without the cover of filth. The hunter grimaces and gently dabs at its throat again, and the vampire trembles and endures it.

“Okay. That’s as good as it’s going to get, I think.”

Water still drips in rivets from the vampire’s bare skin, and it tracks the motion of Callum’s hands as the hunter drops the sponge into the bucket. Then the man stands up, and the creature flinches habitually.

“I’ll be right back,” the hunter mutters. “Stay.”

The vampire is unaccustomed to being spoken to – but whenever Callum gives an instruction it can understand, the creature latches onto it like a lifeline. The other hunters had not cared whether it obeyed or not; it would be hurt just the same either way. But this hunter gives commands, and he speaks to it, and he offers lenience in exchange for obedience.

It’s more mercy than the vampire deserves.

The door is not locked, but it stays where it was put, even as the hunter’s steps fade. In the man’s absence, the creature dares to glance around at its surroundings.

The walls are stone, and there’s a drain in the floor. There is a shelf on the opposite wall with soap and a second sponge, and a wooden stool tucked beneath it. Beyond that the room is bare, and the vampire wraps its good arm around its middle, trying uselessly to conserve warmth.

The door screeches back open, and the vampire’s back hits the far wall before Callum is even fully in the room.

“Hey,” the man says softly. “Easy, pointy. It’s just me.” The words aren’t reassuring, but the vampire only whimpers when the man takes a step closer. Callum hesitates at the sound, and after a moment he drops down into a crouch, holding up the bundle he’s holding.

“I brought towels,” he says. “There are clothes waiting in your room. Let’s get you dry. Then we can take another crack at fixing you up.”

It’s too much information all at once. Clothes and towels and fixing are not things meant for filthy, bloodsucking leeches. And why bother fixing it up, if the hunter would only break it apart again after? The creature trembles under the weight of its own confusion. This is a trick, certainly, a test.

Eventually, the hunter sighs.

“Alright. How about this? You, come here.” The hunter snaps his fingers and then taps the ground at his feet, and relief floods the creature like cool water, because that, at least, is a command it understands.

This man hasn’t punished it for obeying yet, but it still cowers low as it drags itself across the floor. The thought of walking is laughable; instead it moves in an awkward, dragging crawl, and after several moments it drops into a pile at the hunter’s feet. Crooked fingers tremble a mere few inches from the hunter’s boots.

“Okay, good,” the man murmurs. Something settles around bony shoulders, and the vampire shrinks away and whines piteously. It’s being still and obedient, but it doesn’t understand.

The hunter finishes wrapping the towel around its torso, and the vampire shivers and stays put.

“We’ll definitely need to cut your hair,” he muses absently. He’s got a second towel out, squeezing the worst of the moisture out of the creature’s matted hair. The towel comes back dirty, and the hunter tisks.

Callum had removed the belt holding the vampire’s left arm in place so that he can wash it, and the limb feels disconnected and heavy. There is a numbness extending down the vampire’s arm and into its fingers, but there are still enough other hurts that it hardly notices.

“Okay, easy does it. Now let me see your arm…” Callum takes its wrist, and the vampire gives a small, broken warble. It remembers the strength in those hands as the human had snapped its shoulder. It had been so easy, like the vampire was just a broken doll.

“Shh,” the hunter murmurs. “You’re doing fine, kid. I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to hurt you. The creature muffles another little whimper, because it knows that those words are a lie. “I have to see if your shoulder is healing properly,” comes next, and the vampire flinches, drops its eyes.

It doesn’t try to escape, but the vampire can’t help the way it cowers under the hunter’s shadow. Its wrist is still horribly swollen, even though the bone has been set, and the vampire whimpers softly as Callum carefully prods at it.

“Try moving your fingers for me.” The creature tries to twitch its fingers and is met with limited success. “Hmm,” the hunter muses, watching as the creature struggles to move its ring finger. The vampire gives a little whimper in response. This isn’t the result Callum wants, and the human has given it so few commands thus far; just stay and quiet and do as you’re told.

It remembers too late that the man wants it silent, and the creature sinks lower to the floor and bites its tongue to stop its whining. Its wrist is still awkwardly extended, held out for the hunter to examine, or to hurt. There is more light prodding, and the vampire swallows the urge to retch and squeezes its eyes shut.

Callum’s grip changes, then, and more pain flares up from its bad shoulder, and the vampire’s whole body crunches inwards with the effort of staying still and quiet. The pain rolls through it in sickening pulses, and there is more just around the corner, as soon as the man decides to pull or yank or squeeze. The creature can only tremble in place and wait.

“That’s got to hurt,” the hunter mutters. “Try moving your fingers again? One at a time, there you go.” The vampire is confused and terrified, but it marshals its energy and obeys.

Its left thumb and index finger move without issue; its middle finger is stiff, and it shakes with exertion. More than one of the digits is crooked, but those are old injuries, none of them fresh enough to hurt.

Its ring finger and pinky won’t move at all. The vampire tries, but that numbing sensation from earlier is back, shooting all the way from its brutalized shoulder down into its hand.

The vampire muffles a little whimper and tries to curl all its fingers into a fist, but only the first three respond.

“Alright, okay. That’s enough.” It’s such a small thing to do, but the vampire’s shoulders slump as it gives up. The weakness is like a living thing, weighing down its limbs. “So there’s some nerve damage. Interesting.”

The hunter seems neither pleased nor displeased, and the vampire hangs in limbo and waits for his mood to swing one way or the other. Instead, Callum bends to scoop up the discarded belt. “This has to go back on for at least another four days. There’s not much I can do about the nerve damage. We’ll just have to wait and see if your body can repair itself.”

The vampire isn’t listening. Of course, it tries at first – but the information is coming too quickly, and in too harsh a juxtaposition to what it’s used to.

It exists to be hurt, so that its betters can delight in its suffering. The creature knows this, and it does not understand why it hasn’t been beaten yet, or worse.

It is toweled dry gingerly, and then its bad arm is secured against its torso with the belt.

“I know you’re exhausted,” the man says. “I’m going to let you rest very soon. But I have to take a look at the rest of the damage first. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable…”

The vampire squeezes its eyes shut when the man reaches for it, but it doesn’t struggle when it’s picked up. The position puts its face right next to the hunter’s neck, and the creature smells flesh and veins and blood, and it whimpers and twists its face away.

So far, the hunter has been merciful and allowed it to remain unmuzzled. But in order to keep such a privilege, the creature must be absolutely harmless.

“Now, this is going to twinge, and I am not going to get bitten by accident.” The hunter is calm and assured as he nudges the cell open and deposits the vampire back on the thin cot. There are several somethings waiting on the stool; water, bandages, metal and leather – the muzzle.

Even knowing that the device isn’t made of iron, the vampire can’t help but whimper.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured,” Callum muses. “But I need to clean up your back. And your feet.” The hunter draws in another breath, like he’s about to add something else, then changes his mind, shakes his head. “We already know your ribs are a nightmare. But I don’t know how much I can do about that.”

The vampire isn’t sure if it’s meant to respond to the information. But it understands what bitten by accident means, and when Callum takes a step closer the vampire whimpers and shies away.

“Easy,” the hunter says. “Don’t go making this difficult, now.” It’s a reminder, of course; a reminder that there will be no escaping whatever the hunter has planned for it. It’s the gentlest of such reminders than the creature can remember, and it sinks lower on the cot in response and whines its obedience.

Callum knows he’s looming, but the vampire is shrinking away from him so hard that it’s impossible not to. “I thought we could do this a one-or-the-other type way… but it looks like you might not be up for choices, huh.” He’s not surprised, anymore, by the lack of response. The vampire is nearly bestial in the way it responds to him; as far as Callum can tell, beyond yes or no questions, it reacts more to his tone than to what he says.

It’s animalistic. And Callum would be tempted to keep thinking of the creature that way, except for the naked, human terror in its eyes whenever he moves too quickly or speaks too harshly.

“Same deal as last time,” he mutters. “You go where you’re put, and I’ll make this quick.” He picks up the muzzle and undoes the straps, and watches the vampire swallow a whimper.

He’s gentler, this time, when he puts the muzzle on, despite the danger of having his fingers so close to the creature’s teeth. He’d taken the bit out that morning, and Callum adjusts the smooth curve of leather to make sure nothing pinches before buckling it closed. The vampire is completely docile while he works.

“There we go, good,” he murmurs. It feels natural to talk to the creature, even if Callum is still unsure of how much it understands. But he is fairly certain that he hasn’t imagined the vampire’s response. Some of the constant, numbing terror seems to ease just a little when it knows that Callum is pleased.

Of course, he thinks bitterly, that makes sense. He wonders what a difference in treatment it would have made, before, if those other hunters had been pleased or not.

“Now down,” he murmurs, and he turns the creature and presses, and it folds under the direction like paper. There’s a nearly inaudible whine as the vampire settles belly-down on the cot, and Callum hushes it softly. He goes to pat the creature’s bare flank, like he would to calm his horse, but the skin there is concave, stretched too thin over pulped ribs. He grits his teeth, turns away.

“Stay,” he says, and all movement from the vampire immediately ceases.

The coming operation would be a lot easier in his lab, but Callum’s not sure he can handle the creature’s terrorized, hollow-eyed stare again so soon. And he’s sure the vampire appreciates being on the cot instead of the cold exam table.

There’s clean water, alcohol, and a cloth waiting, as well as bandages and an assortment of sutures and creams.

Callum has a wary alliance with the town’s doctor where Callum treats his own injuries, unless he’s been hurt badly enough that he physically can’t... and on those occasions when he shows up on the doc’s doorstep bleeding too heavily to staunch, he pays the doctor triple, and after he limps out the back door on his own power. But there’s no amount of gold that would convince a human doctor to see a vampire, even if the risk factor wasn’t so great. So Callum and this little vampire are on their own.

“Fuck, kid,” he mutters as he crouches down beside the cot. The creature’s rib cage is visibly misshapen, even (or especially) when seen from the back. The knobs of its spine protrude grotesquely from its body, like its skin has been suctioned right down to its bones. Some of the scars are old, raised and textured, and some aren’t scars at all, still open and oozing. Many are somewhere in between, but all dealt with the same casual cruelty that Callum has come to expect. There’s nothing deliberate about the injuries; this damage had been dealt carelessly, angrily. Hatefully.

The vampire is quivering as it waits, and when Callum carefully touches a patch of bruised skin, it twitches and lets out a muffled sob.

“C’mon, now,” Callum says. “I’m not hurting you.” Not yet, anyway. Not on purpose. “It won’t be like yesterday,” he murmurs. “I’m just cleaning out these open wounds, and I need to see what’s broken.” It’s not a question of if, just of what. “If you haven’t bled out already, I don’t think you need stitches.”

The vampire flinches minutely, and then there’s nothing left to say.

Most of the damage is visible to the naked eye, what with how gaunt the creature it, but Callum checks anyway. Its pelvis is in one piece, its hips are where they should be – although the vampire gasps and whines piteously as Callum tests the one on the left. He doesn’t like the way its ribs crunch and move with every inhale.

“Alright, it’s alright,” he murmurs as the examination goes lower. It turns his stomach, but Callum braces himself and checks for signs of a different kind of assault. There is nothing – or at least, there is no evidence present.

Below that, the vampire’s knees are swollen, and there’s a visible dent in the bone of its right shin. Callum frowns, then prods, very gently. There’s no reaction from the creature; an old break, then. Further examination reveals that it’s the vampire’s tibia bone, and it was caved inwards and then healed incorrectly.

The creature won’t be able to walk until it heals, but then, that also applies to its recently set hip joint. And, Callum discovers as he continues, it also applies to the soles of the vampire’s feet.

Tatters. That’s the only word Callum can think of describe the state they’re in. He takes one of the creature’s ankles, skinny and knobby, and the flesh there is still open and raw from the iron manacles. The vampire flinches at the contact, and its foot jerks, like it might pull away – but it quickly goes still again.

“That’s it, little bat,” Callum soothes as he looks over the damage. “You’re doing fine.” There’s still dirt caked in the open wounds, and Callum lets out a sigh, runs a hand down his face. He’ll need to clean its feet. But first he completes the rest of the exam. The creature’s cranium is intact, no dents or bumps, although there’s a nasty, crusted bruise on the back of its skull. His fingers come away bloody, and the vampire flinches and whines.

“This part is going to hurt,” he says when he’s done. There’s a delayed, wounded sort of whimper, but the creature only clenches its fingers in the blanket and squeezes its eyes shut.

Callum drags the water closer and wishes he was anywhere else.

The creature screams as he cleans its feet. There’s no way to make it painless; the flesh on the bottom of its feet isn’t burned, it’s sliced. Some skin comes away in a ribbon as Callum squeezes water out over it, and he forces down his gag reflex. There’s grit and dirt particles stuck in the cuts, and even though he had brought two extra pots of clean water, he goes through all of it.

The water is pink by the time he’s done, and the vampire is panting and sobbing into the lumpy mattress.

“I know,” Callum mutters. “I know, pointy, I’m sorry.”

Somehow, throughout all the pain, the vampire has managed to remain mostly still. But this time, when he catches one of those slender ankles, it cries out and twists. All it takes is a warning squeeze, and the creature sobs desperately but falls still and silent again.

It’s the cream next; if the creature were human, Callum would have to follow the water up with alcohol, and then bandage it. But the possibility of an infection has had a long head start – months of it. If infection could kill the creature, it would have done so already. So Callum dabs a cream made for soothing and pain-relief onto the cuts, and the creature twitches and flinches through it.

He makes sure to get the vampire’s raw ankles too, and then everything from the ankle down is wrapped in clean bandages.

“There we go,” Callum says as he sits back. The vampire is still shaking, hiding its face in its good arm. “Almost done,” he adds.

He cleans the open wounds on the vampire’s back, and the knot on the back of its skull, but he knows they aren’t the biggest threat.

The creature’s rib cage is in bad shape. Callum can see the way its ribs shift and move with each inhale, and there’s one doesn’t even seem to be attached to its sternum anymore. Some are crooked, and there’s one poking up against the skin – not piercing, but threatening to.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. If any internal organs had been punctured, the creature should be dead – but then, that assumes that vampires even have working organs. That assumes they can even die from things like internal bleeding or sepsis or a collapsed lung. “This would be a lot easier if I knew what I was dealing with,” he thinks out loud.

There’s a faint wheeze every time the vampire inhales, and Callum knows that it hasn’t just started. Injuries like this would kill a human, would have killed a human, probably a long time ago. And because it would have killed a human, Callum isn’t sure how to treat them. Support from the outside, certainly – but that won’t do much good, if the ribs are splintered inwards.

It’s too much, all of a sudden. Callum pushes to his feet and steps away, inhales sharply, clenches his teeth.

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

“We’re – hnnk.” His voice catches, and Callum coughs. “I’m going to wrap your ribs, and we’ll call that it for the day.” Because right now, that’s all he can do. None of these injuries can heal until all the misaligned bones are back where they should be.

He might have to cut it open, Callum thinks – and the thought horrifies him. He’s got nothing to put it under with, doesn’t even know what substances or chemical compounds might affect a vampire, aside from iron and silver. There would be nothing to dull the pain as he peeled it open and dug around for its misplaced ribs.

On the thin little cot, the vampire is huddled as small as it can go and still be flat on its stomach. The hunter had put it there, and the creature hasn’t dared to move. It hadn’t, not even when the man had poured what felt like boiling acid over its feet. Not when it stung and burned and made tears prick in its eyes.

“Alright, over you go.” Callum does not wait for it to obey; instead he helps it move, and the creature gasps as pain lances through it. There’s still so much of it, coming from so many different places. The hunter leans it against the cold wall, and mutters a quick, “Stay.”

The vampire stays, and Callum retrieves the largest two rolls of bandages and starts carefully winding them around its torso.

When it’s done, the creature looks almost human. The grit has been cleaned off its skin, the worst open wounds have been bandaged. Callum unbuckles the muzzle when it’s over, and he steadies the creature’s jaw as it comes free.

The vampire wets its lip habitually, but instead of charred flesh, all it tastes is the lingering tint of steel. It had forgotten that the hunter had muzzled it; after wearing one for so long, its bare face feels stranger than the leather and metal.

“Now let’s get you into some clothes.” There’s a pile waiting by the door, soft, earthy colors and stiff cotton. The vampire’s eyes skip over it uncomprehendingly, unable to even process the words.

The creature recoils when the hunter reaches for it. There is fabric looped carefully over its wrist, and the vampire swallows another whimper. Maybe it’s just cloth – or maybe he’ll hang it from its bad arm, make it whimper and scream. Maybe he’ll break the other one, so it matches, and the vampire knows that it deserves the pain, but it’s so tired of hurting.

Instead the fabric is pulled up, still careful, and then it’s being guided down over the creature’s head, and – a shift?

“Okay, good.” Callum is patient with the vampire’s confusion, and with its fumbling when it finally figures out what it’s supposed to do. The fabric is bundled up under its chin, but it’s clothing, not a rope or a restraint, or some kind of new torture implement.

The vampire lets out a shuddering breath as Callum tugs the garment into place. It’s not a shirt so much as a loose cotton drape, and the hunter ties it below its bad shoulder, and then the vampire is clothed for the first time in its memory.

The fabric feels too tight, too heavy against its skin.

Pants are next; the creature still cannot stand, so the hunter has to awkwardly hold it while they tug on a set of Callum’s old breeches. The vampire knows they are Callum’s, because the fabric is soft with use and mended in places, and it smells like sun and the desert.

Every little motion makes its injuries sing with pain, and every second the vampire expects the hunter to make it worse – dig his fingers into its side, maybe, or its back.

“That’s better,” the hunter says instead, and the vampire can only blink at his shoes in bewilderment. It does not understand the continued commentary. But better is a stepping-stone from bad to good, so the vampire clings to it and hopes.

“I’m going out for a little while.” The hunter’s voice comes again as he steps away, picks up the dirty water, gatherings up the other supplies. “I have someone to visit. When I get back I’ll have blood for you.”

Just the mention of blood makes the vampire’s gums prick, and it whines softly.

“Yeah,” the hunter agrees absently. “You need more than I can give you. So… hold tight. Just for a little longer.”

Callum takes the muzzle with him, and the creature watches with wide, baffled eyes as he goes.

The cell door closes, and once again the vampire is left bewildered, marooned, adrift in a sea of its own confusion. It understands, on some level, that this man has been nothing but careful with it. And yet pain and torment are the only things the creature understands, so it doesn’t understand this.

The lack of pain feels like a missing limb, for how used to it the creature has gotten. And in the absence of it, the vampire isn’t sure what’s left. It doesn’t know what it has left to offer, what it still has for the man to take from it or use it for.

But this hunter seems to have dedicated himself to finding out.

[END]

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@wildfaewhump @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty @scarheart @kyra-plays @lionhxartx @blue-flare10 @whumpywhumper @doityourselfbombs @pastry-case @maybeawhumpblog @httyd-chocolate @maqcyloup @yyyee-haw @to-hurt-and-comfort @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @manip-loki @dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump @ariirenn @poetofswords86 @whumpity--whump--whump @swagjudgehandsdragon @machimaquiaveli @theladyoffangorn @oracle-of-maybe @cuddlycryptid @the-potato-beeper @insanitycheshire @slam-whump @sweeterthanadonut @ffaerie-dustt @whump-in-the-night @elfo8792 @kinda-bad-poet @crackedskel @deluxewhump @this-zombie-will-eat-you @a-moment-to-write @stoic-whumpee @paradigmparadoxical @burtlederp

#whump #nonhuman whumpee #obedience #fear #muzzle #reluctant caretaker #vampire whump series #my writing #editing six months later for world building purposes #O.ooo

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whumping-every-day · 5 years

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BDHB: Sparrow

I have a sizable backlog of asks and message, and I do apologize for that! I haven’t had any time to breathe lately... but my bus ride was two hours today, so please have amputation, for BDHB. Also I gotta ping @to-hurt-and-comfort - your Bee and Guy story was a big inspiration for this! And I can’t remember who all was in on it, but the whumper-gatherings verse had a huge impact too. They could, conceivably, all be set in the same universe? xD

Also pinging @wildfaewhump for the wing whump, because I know you enjoy that. 😊

Content Warnings! Amputation, dehumanization, nonconsensual body modification, Littles-verse.

“I thought you said it was a bird breed?”

“Um, no. I said it was a bird mix.”

Sparrow can no longer tremble as it lays on the cool metal surface. It’s face-down, and its collar has been clipped to the tiny link in the tray. Its wings have been stretched painfully wide, constricting the creature’s chest muscles as the humans speak above it.

“So what’s it mixed with, then? I’ve never seen a Little with four wings.”

“It’s anyone’s guess,” the first voice answers. “But the vet I took it to said fae, probably a minor breed. They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

A finger presses down on its wings, then, and the sheer size of it against Sparrow’s thin, straining bones has it trilling in instinctive panic. It’s so tiny compared to its owner – Sparrow is no more than six inches tall, and the fingers are rough and callus as they stroke its upper wings.

“Still. I can’t show it like this. These creatures are only supposed to have one set. So… you know what to do.”

Something clangs nearby, and Sparrow jerks and wheezes, tears beading up in its eyes. Its owner does not care about it. Its owner will cut and carve it into whatever shape he wants, and he has before. But this time there is someone else here, and it wants to be good, but Sparrow is afraid.

What will be left when they are done with it?

“Seems a shame, don’t you think?”

A strange set of fingers close around Sparrow’s left upper wing. The heat of it radiates against Sparrow’s skin, and then the fingers pull, firm and unyielding. Sparrow shrieks as it feels muscle tear, and its feathers quiver in agony under the brutal handling.

“It’s certainly pretty this way. But if you can turn this mutt into something with a pedigree…”

There’s a sigh, and Sparrow hangs in the grip and sobs.

“Alright,” the strange voice says. “If you’re paying me, I guess I have no objections.”

Its wing is released, and it flops noiselessly back to the metal tray, splayed out unnaturally. Sparrow’s plumage is dull and lifeless, even though it’s supposed to be beautiful for Master. But the creamy undersides are matted with dried blood and old feathers, and the top pair are useless now, with the upper left wing singing in pain with every inhale.

Sparrow does not know how it will get back into its birdhouse, once Master is done with it.

It’s helpless against the two humans, pinned flat so it can’t even see what’s coming. The tips of its wings are all pierced, and it’s tied down so it can’t squirm, can’t even twist around to look. There’s a metallic sound, something being set down next to the tray, and Sparrow trembles. Its eyes are streaming with tears, but it has no energy to sob aloud.

The fingers are back, then, and they’re even crueler than before as they grip its wings and pull. Sparrow chokes and wheezes desperately at the tightening of muscles in its chest, but the man holds its wings in position.

“It’ll have to relearn how to fly,” the voice warns, even as a large, sharp object is carefully set against the joint in Sparrow’s left wing.

Sparrow opens its mouth to beg, and can only manage a pitiful churring.

“Fine,” Master answers. “Just do it, would you?”

There’s a huff, and then a sharp, decisive snip.

At first, the pain does not register. It’s the weight that Sparrow feels first, a lack of drag against its shoulder. Then the agony sets in, and Sparrow screams. It’s crying out loud, now, as it realizes what has happened. Its upper left wing, half of its top set, is gone. Sparrow cranes its neck against its collar, and sees the bloodied stump lying on the metal tray, attached to their severed limb.

Then its other wing is grabbed, and Sparrow trills in panic and thrashes. It yanks and pulls in terrified spasms, making a high, airy keening sound. It hurts so much, so deeply, but the fingers do not relent. The process repeats itself; the wing is pulled out far enough to tear muscle from bone, and then the scissors (and that’s what they are, Sparrow realizes) the scissors are set against the base.

Sparrow can only lie there and sob after its done, twitching uselessly against the restraints. Its middle wings – or its only wings, now. Those wings are still tied by the piercings around the tray with a bit of twine. It’s a carelessly callous way of displaying its own helplessness. If Master can hold it down with only twine, then there is no resisting.

“It’ll need to rest,” someone is saying. Sparrow moans weakly, tasting salt from its own tears. Its whole body feels hot and cold, naseua broiling up in its stomach. “The stubs will heal up, then scab and fall off. Give it maybe two months, and you’ll have a regular sparrow.”

“I appreciate it, as always.” The sound of Masters voice has Sparrow keening weakly, its surviving wings fluttering pitifully against the tray.

The door closes. Then Master returns, but he cleans up the scissors and alcohol before he even looks at his sobbing pet. “Hmm,” he mutters as he picks up the severed wings, holding them up. “Might have to frame these for later.”

Sparrow’s eyes steam tears as the twine is loosened. It doesn’t move, can’t even think about moving, with the agony in its back.

Large fingers unclip its collar, and then Master is picking it up by its two remaining wings.

The motion is unexpected, and Sparrow shrieks as its weight (hardly more than a roll of dimes) settles on its joints. Its whole back is in agony, blood trickling down its spine from the bleeding stubs.

“Guess we’ll see how this turns out,” Master says, and Sparrow can only hang there in his grip and whimper. The human crosses the yawning distance of the kitchen in two steps, and Sparrow’s stomach twists violently at the motion. Master holds it up to the birdhouse, and Sparrow grabs for the ledge weakly. It must be too slow, though, because after a second Master just grunts and shoves it in through the hole.

The motion jostles the bleeding stubs, and Sparrow cries out as it lands roughly on the inside.

The birdhouse is simple. Rough wood, small, a box with a single hole cut out as an entrance. Sparrow can barely lay down flat, but it curls into a quivering ball and sobs.

“Shut up,” Master mutters as he fits the grated metal cap onto the opening. It’s a cage, suspended in midair, and without its upper wings, Sparrow has nowhere to go but down.

The weight against its back is sickly lopsided, and every shift is a reminder of what’s been taken from it. The little humanoid cries itself to sleep, wrapped tightly in the two wings that it’s been allowed to keep.

#whump #amputation #pet whump #tiny whumpee #bdhb #whump community #my writing #also because I know I would be worried about this - Sparrow does get to keep one set of wings!!!#just.... just the one #O.ooo #i guess i should tag this as #sparrow whump series

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