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shywhumpauthor · 10 months

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Distant

Cw: past and present torture, scar/body shaming, self depreciation, isolation, all hurt/no comfort, creepy whumper, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, noncon touching, extremely vague implications of potential non-con relationship

They separated themself because of their work. That’s what Leader told themself. Getting caught up in the dynamics of the team would only ever be a distraction from the job they had to focus on.

They put distance for a reason. They only interacted the others during meetings or missions. They ate, slept, and planned in their own chambers, far away from the common area that the team shared. They didn’t talk with them, only giving orders when necessary. They led the team, strong even from afar. They were efficient and calculated with everything they did. It wasn’t isolation, it was tactic.

Any personal connections would only distract them, cloud their work and blur the lines between strictly coworkers and the strong familial bond that the others seemed to share. Sometimes Leader would walk by, only reason they were outside their own room being some sort of necessity, and see them. All of five of them, huddled on a couch barely big enough to fit three people, laughing and fooling around as some movie droned on the television. A few plush throw blankets shared among the group. A bowl of popcorn balanced in Teammate’s lap, while Youngest reached over Medic to grab a handful. A loud, shared laugh when that popcorn flew a moment later and smacked Hero in the face.

Leader had walked in and snatched the remote, clicking the TV off.

“We leave at five tomorrow,” they snapped, their lips pressing together as they fixed a glare across the team. Watching as each of their eyes dropped in turn.

“Sorry, Leader,” Right Hand muttered, their posture straightening as they sat up and pushed the blanket off their legs.

Words rested heavy on Leader’s tongue, but they clenched their jaw and swallowed them back. They set the remote down none too gently on the end table, the plastic hitting loud against the wood. Stalked out of the room a moment later, pausing just outside the hall when they heard Youngest’s voice.

“What’s their problem?” The newest teammate whispered, sound carrying just enough so Leader could hear. Something in their chest tightened, a cold emotion seeping through their gut.

“Don’t mind them,” Right Hand mumbled back, words obscured slightly by a shuffle of movement. “They’ve always had a stick up their ass. It’s not personal.”

Leader quickly walked away.

They couldn’t get close. The walls were there for a reason. The team might not necessarily like them, or even respect them, but they listen, and that’s all Leader needs them to do. They weren’t there to be friends with anyone. They were there to lead.

That’s what they did. They led mission after mission, never ending with anything other than overall success. Sure, sometimes there were hiccups, bumps in the plan but success was success, even if hard earned. If they all came back to base, intact and breathing with whatever supplies they had been sent to collect or whatever villain they had been ordered to defeat conquered, it was a success.

Success. They had destroyed the weapon Whumper was building. That’s what the plan had been. Capturing the criminal would have been a nice bonus, but it wasn’t the plan. The plan that was successful. The ride to return to base, the six of them packed in the open back of a military grade Jeep, there was an air of pride that settled across the team. Exhausted, worn, but well-earned satisfaction.

Right Hand sat with one arm around Youngest’s shoulders, holding them against them as the vehicle rocked over the uneven roads. The kid was out cold, dead tired. They had done well, Leader had been watching. They did everything right, just the way they had learned in training. Fought back three henchmen at once, helped hold the line of defense while Leader went to complete the mission. If anyone earned rest, it really was them. A bruise bloomed across their jaw, a small split tearing their eyebrow, but they seemed to have avoided any serious blows.

Teammate sat to their other side, looking dead tired but smiling softly. One hand fooled with Youngest’s hair, the other resting close to their chest wound in gauzy white bandages.

Hero and Medic sat close, against the wall that separated the body of the vehicle from the canvas tarp section the team sat in. The former was bandaging Hero’s leg, which had a nasty looking slit running down nearly the entire length of their thigh to their knee, speaking to them quietly.

Leader sat separate from them all, by the back door where the tarp would flip up and the gate would open when it was time for them to exit. A low ringing buzzed in their ears as they focused on a flickering spot of light, one that just managed to filter through a gap in the canvas. Nausea clawed at their stomach and crept up their throat, the sting of bile making their eyes burn as they forced their breathing to remain steady. They clutched their jacket tightly around them, the thick fabric doing nothing to soothe the continuous chills that raked up their spine. One arm wrapped around their abdomen, holding the coat closed over them while their other hand was stuck through the open zipper, palm pressing firm against their side.

They didn’t think it was bleeding too badly, but their dark jacket would turn bloodstains invisible so they had nothing to go off of but the warm, sticky liquid spilling past their fingers. It had definitely slowed in the past half hour, which they knew was a good sign. Pain painted darkness around the corners of their vision, but they were able to blink back the clarity. That was also a good sign.

Only a few more minutes until they were back to base. Until they could slip out of the truck and away to their chambers. Medic would take care of the rest of the teams’ injuries, they didn’t have to worry about them. Right Hand would give the orders for the night, though there wasn’t much to do other than rest and recuperate. It would all be taken care of. If Youngest were to question where they were, Hero would roll their eyes and say something like “they’re mad we didn’t catch Whumper. Just let them sulk,” and that would be the end of it. They doubted they would ask though. It was clear the newest teammate didn’t like Leader, which was fair enough. They were just the asshole who ordered the rest of them around, the obnoxious commander that no one liked but they were too scared of to not follow orders.

A long time ago, long before Youngest joined the team, before Medic and Hero were ever officially assigned to their squad, they had tried. They had tried to form the kind of bond they saw across the team. Before they were Leader, back when they were under Mentor’s command. They had never quite fit in to the dynamic. Leader had been painfully aware. They tried not to notice the way the atmosphere would change when they entered a room, the way their team would address them politely but the tension beneath was clear. The unease, unsettlement.

Leader didn’t blame them. Back then, they hadn’t bothered to hide. They would walk into training with a tank top and shorts, scars and mangled flesh practically on display. When they bore Whumper’s marks not with shame but anger, a drive for revenge they dreamed about enacting.

The first time they had heard Mentor talking to Commander, they hadn’t really been surprised. More hurt than anything, quiet voices floating through the hall after combat training. The pitying words laced with a disgust only Leader could hear. “What happened to them?” But concern was the last thing in their tone. That was the first time, hearing how clearly they spoke behind Leader’s back, they realized just how warily the others acted around them. How they walked on eggshells whenever Leader entered a room. They didn’t think anyone really noticed—or cared—when they pulled away after that. When they retreated to their chambers, started eating meals in their room. Opting to train alone rather than with the group. Wearing thick long sleeved shirts whenever they went anywhere outside the privacy of their own room. And then even when they were alone. The ugly, uneven, raised scars only ever seemed to mock them, until they couldn’t bear to look at them.

Leader squeezed their eyes shut with a shudder, pain rippling across their side.

The mission had been a success. They destroyed the weapon.

All because Whumper had let them.

The villain had intercepted them the moment Leader had split off from the group to fulfill their part. Had wrapped their hands around their throat and shoved them against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of them.

“Oh Leader, it’s so good to see you again.” Whumper grinned, their thumbs digging against Leader’s throat hard enough to make them gag. Only laughing as they scrambled to claw at the grip restraining them. “You really should come visit more often. I was starting to miss you.”

It still hurt to take a deep breath. The hood of their jacket pulled up and their chin tucked down, the bruises that were still settling into an angry red obscured. They couldn’t imagine swallowing.

“How badly do you want this, Leader? What would you do to make sure your team leaves here alive?” Whumper had asked.

“Anything. Please.”

Anything was a very broad category. Leader had meant it. Anything. Whatever you want. Just let them leave. Leader’s head throbbed as they leaned it back against the canvas. They had to be almost home.

“They don’t know, do they?” Whumper asked, a blade dancing between their fingers as Leader stripped off their jacket, then their shirt. Folded them with trembling hands and set them aside.

“No.” Leader answered, truth weighing heavy on their voice. Whumper only tipped their chin, a silent order that rang loud through the room. The back room, the very weapon that Leader was supposed to destroy constructed right in the center of the lab. They lowered themself to their knees besides it, letting their head dip in submission.

Their back ached. The rail dug into their spine, sending a small jolt down their back at every bump in the road. They would be back soon. Deep breaths. Slow inhale, slow exhale. Only a few more minutes until they’d be able to retreat to the only haven they had.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you, Leader?” Whumper crouched in front of them, dragging the flat of the blade down Leader’s cheek. Twisting it so the tip traced across their bottom lip, barely scratching the skin as they dragged it down their chin, their neck.

“No.” Leader responded quietly, fighting to remain still as the blade traced an old scar down their sternum. Drawing a faint line of red over the raised skin. “No sir.”

The road changed from gravel to dirt beneath the tires and Leader almost cried with relief. A couple minutes. Only a few hundred more seconds until they could disappear. They watched as Teammate lightly shook Youngest’s shoulder, rousing them. As Medic began to pack their supplies back into their first aid duffel. Something twisted in their stomach.

“You were always so good for me,” Whumper whispered, the tip of the knife resting just above Leader’s naval. Their other hand raised to cup the hero’s cheek, thumb brushing over a faint scar that split their cheekbone. Their touch was so gentle, so caring Leader couldn’t help but lean into it. Shame and longing burning in their chest as Whumper smiled sadly at them.

“Oh you poor thing. Surrounded by your team but so, so alone.” They let the commander rest their head in their palm, watching the emotions dance behind Leader’s eyes. “I’ve never hurt you as bad as they’ve been, have I?” Their voice was barely audible, but the truth rang through the room. Tears stung Leader’s eyes, a single one slipping from the corner and trailing down their cheek. Whumper tenderly brushed it away.

They could still feel the hands against their skin. Phantoms of touch lingering over their face, brushing away the tears Leader fought back with every sliver of strength they could muster. Something was eating away at them from inside, tearing them apart piece by piece. They stumbled up as the truck finally stopped, not even waiting for the engine to turn off before they opened the back gate and climbed out, movements uneven and graceless.

“You really need a win, don’t you?” The words seemed to echo in Leader’s mind, leaving their ears ringing. They let their eyes slip shut, just for a moment. They could almost forget where they were. They could almost forget the tip of the knife resting against their abdomen. They were drowning in the touch, the care from hands that had only ever hurt them. They weren’t sure if they wanted to come up for air.

They nodded against Whumper’s hand, slowly opening their eyes once more.

They were in the base before any of their team got out of the truck. They moved through the halls in a daze, following a route in their mind that they weren’t quite paying attention to. Their hand shook as they typed the code to their room into the keypad by the door, legs wobbling beneath them as they stumbled inside.

They made a straight path for the bathroom, fumbling off their jacket as they went. Blood soaked their undershirt, plastering it to their side but they tugged it over their head, ignoring as it pulled at the wounds.

They snatched a hand towel from the rack it hung on, the white fibers turning red the moment they touched it. They pressed the linen to the wound, swallowing back a hiss. The cuts weren’t bad, but something about it made the gashes sting worse than they would if the towel was soaked in alcohol. They would throw it out later. Not worth trying to wash out. Same with their undershirt.

The mission had been a success. The weapon was destroyed. Gone, Whumper’s plans wrecked. But Leader had failed their assignment. They were supposed to be the one to destroy it, and they hadn’t. Villain had torn apart their own work. Ripped it to shreds right there and burned the remains. Set the whole damn room on fire. Leader could still feel the heat flush against their cheeks.

They let the team escape, though they had the forces to subdue them all. They let them walk away unscathed and celebrating a success that was given to them.

“Hold still for me, alright?” Whumper murmured against Leader’s ear, dragging their empty hand down Leader’s bare side. Feeling the goosebumps rise beneath their fingertips as they stopped along a familiar set of scars by the bottom of their ribcage. Let their palm rest over the marred skin for a few long moments before moving to grip the hero’s arm, holding it still as they raised the knife. Leader shuddered and bit their lip, letting their weight sink to rest on their heels. Their other hand clenched against their thigh, nails digging into their palm.

They couldn’t hold back a gasp as the tip of the blade plunged deep into their skin. The pain was sharp and bright, fire licking below their flesh as Whumper slowly twisted the knife downwards, following the path of a raised scar. Their other hand held Leader’s arm, just above their elbow for stability. Their grip firm, comforting as they hummed a quiet reassurance.

“You’re doing well, Leader.” Whumper said quietly, gaze focused where the knife split the skin, precise and dangerous. “Your team doesn’t recognize how hard you work. They’re fools. All of them.”

“I’ve always seen your dedication. Your strength. You can’t show them your pain or they’ll think you’re weak.”

Whumper’s hand moved up their arm, resting on their shoulder as they began the next deep line. Leader winced and Whumper hushed them.

“I’ve hurt you. I’ve pushed you past your limits, broken you. But I have never thought you were weak.”

Leader pulled the towel away from the wound, grimacing as they did so. They moved to the sink and fumbled with the faucet, putting a clean corner of the towel under the water. They leaned heavily against the counter, slowly bringing the cloth to dab away at some of the drying blood.

The knife dropped away from their skin as a bead of blood rolled down their torso. Whumper’s hand left their skin, pulling aside their own jacket’s hem so they could slip the blade back into its sheath. They shifted onto their knees, even with Leader’s height as they brought both of their hands to either side of their face. Cupping their cheeks with a care Leader had never felt before. Thumbs running soothingly over their cheekbones.

“Never forget who you belong to,” Whumper murmured quietly, pulling Leader’s face forwards so they could press a kiss to their forehead. Lips warm and possessive against their clammy skin, lingering for just a moment before pulling back.

Leader could still feel the heat against their forehead, sticking to their skin as they cleaned the area around the cuts. A small collection, maybe eight lines in total, neat and perfectly in line with the old scars below. Two letters, letters that had once been lost among the dozens of other marks and blemishes, now highlighted in red. Making sure they’d never forget.

They heard a small buzz, vision speckled as they looked down. Their communicator still clipped to their belt, the small screen on top lit dull green with a message. They could only make out the first few letters of the contact, but they knew who it was. Right Hand, probably to confirm they should take over the mission review. They’d take their answer whether Leader responded affirmative or not at all. They didn’t bother to reply.

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whumpwillow · 5 months

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Demon's Haven 16

a guy who is just an idiot

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masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, whumpee thinking caretaker is new whumper, self-harm references (he's aggravating his own injuries), vague dissociation references

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I just wanted them to respect me.

Words he’d never dared to utter out loud before. Hell was a vicious place where weakness wasn’t tolerated, and vulnerability got you nowhere. So he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself, and to manifest his more…envious desires in other ways.

He’d never have admitted it to himself if all this hadn’t happened. He spent long hours working in his study just to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t have to think of such things. And yet there it was, the undeniable proof that he was weak. That he had to resort to base means in order to try and garner respect when his other siblings were capable of it just by virtue of their very existence.

Hah, virtue.

His brothers had the lesser demons looking up to them as if they were gods and all they had to do was walk into a room. Pride especially was a perfect example of this. He was like the sun—he drew attention to himself as if his presence was itself a gravitational pull. Envy hated it. He wanted it. He didn’t have the ability for that sort of thing and had to take the scraps of attention that he was owed, grasping and strangling.

He thought the other demons would be awed or at least cowed by his display of brutality in the human realm, but then Lust had gone and one-upped him without even trying. Envy, as always, faded into the background. His actions forgotten by all the people he wanted to have remembered, yet was brought up again now only to serve as a reminder of his failings.

It was such a stupid farce. All of it.

He clenched his hair in his hands, disregarding the broken fingers. He let the pain consume him. He wanted to disappear.

Throwing his hands down in frustration did nothing to stop the riotous feelings welling inside. Did nothing to stop the voice of the angel. That burning, stinging, cooing voice. It told him he was a sinner. That he should suffer, that he should be punished, that he should live his days in fear and regret and utter misery. The angel made him believe it to be true.

The angel’s voice played out in his thoughts, telling him to be afraid.

Warm hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Envy drew in a sharp intake of breath, his gaze locking onto the witch’s.

Oh, Haven.

Why had he told her who he was? She was going to hurt him now, surely. She said she wouldn’t—many times, in fact—but how could he believe that? How could she not want to?

And yet. She held his wrists in her hands but did not squeeze the bruises there. She did not yank him forward or send him tumbling to the floor. She continued to surprise him by showing familiar actions that usually preceded violence and replacing them with kindness and Envy didn’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to be free of pain. He wanted to be free of his thoughts. He wanted to pay for his sins. He wanted to rest.

He tried to think of what to say as an excuse for his actions, and what had tumbled off his lips were truer thoughts than any he had said in years. Perhaps ever. He struggled to think of anyone he’d ever told his deepest secrets to and came up blank. Such was his life, what he used to think so highly of and yet what crumbled in mere moments.

He was crying again, goddammit. His eyes stung and the back of his throat burned, the feeling distinct from that of holy water being forced down it. Sharper, deeper. Utterly humiliating.

Haven wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Envy allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he savored the touch. When had anyone ever touched him like that? Like he was something worthy of being held so gently, like he was more precious than all the gemstones in his court?

“You’re bleeding again.”

Envy blinked dumbly at her in response to the statement. Finally catching up after a moment too long, he processed the words and turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lashes from the silver whip had turned the gauze a cherry-red. He was in less pain than he’d been in since…well, the beginning of his imprisonment, so this could actually have been seen as an improvement that he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with utmost intelligence. Clearly.

Haven settled herself on the bed next to him, more carefully than before. He knew it wasn’t because of his injuries, but because of who he was. She was afraid of him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she jumped from the bed, instinct urging her to run from him. He almost wished she had. He only wanted her to be happy, not afraid.

But he was a selfish creature, and he couldn’t stop himself from the need that raged in him, that which made him desperately not want to be left alone. It was the same desire that made him grab her wrist earlier, and what had compelled him to think he could order her to stay while he bathed even when he knew she would have preferred to be elsewhere. He just couldn’t stop himself from causing problems for her.

And know she knew who he was. What he’d done.

Worse, she was a witch. She was of the ilk that he had carelessly slaughtered for amusement and recognition, and now Envy was at the mercy of her decisions. He wondered if she would take revenge for her kind that had died at his hands, or at those of his brothers’. The thought made his chest ache something fierce, but he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t have the right. After everything, he was still the same awful being that he was always was and he didn’t want her to treat him any differently than she had been.

He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness. Oh, he knew. The angel had made sure that he believed every awful thing she ever said about him, but by everything he was borne of, he wanted nothing more than for Haven to remain as she was.

“I’ll need to stitch them. The wounds on your back,” she said to him.

There was no malice in her voice, nor fear. The second emotion, however, was plain on her face even as she tried to hide it.

Envy nodded listlessly. “Alright.”

He realized this going to be a long night and that he wouldn’t get to drift off so soon. If he got lucky, she’d let him sleep while she worked. He might even be able to—he’d gotten lots of practice in sleeping in uncomfortable positions while in terrible pain.

Envy nodded, the motion stilted. He braced himself for what was to come and whether or not the witch—Haven, lovely Haven, such an apropos name—would take this as her opportunity to turn on him.

She didn’t, at least not right at that moment. Instead, she pursed her lips, forming them into a mildly displeased moue. Envy winced and cursed his tendency to nod rather than reply with actual words. That must have been what had done it. She was angry with him now for not being treated with the proper respect, of course. Because he was a demon prince, fallen so far, now at the mercy of those once considered beneath him and of course, of course she would want him to demonstrate just how much their positions had changed. He was just so tired, so it was easier to opt for a nod rather than to force the sounds from his throat that was still so raw from begging, screaming, pleading, pleading—

“We should get some rest.”

Haven set her hands down on her lap and stood, then brushed off her skirts. Envy watched her. Blinked once, twice. The witch began collecting the bandages and rolls of gauze from the bed.

“What?” Envy asked, confused.

Haven paused, then looked at him. “We’re both tired, you’re not going to bleed out, and I’m sure you would appreciate not being stuck with a needle while I try to sew you up half-asleep. We can do it tomorrow.”

Envy couldn’t seem to process the information he was hearing. She was going to let him sleep? Not just that, but to let him sleep unhindered by additional pain? What was the catch?

Haven bent down to pick up a bandage roll that had fallen, but Envy slipped off the bed to get it for her. He didn’t account for the fact that he could barely use his legs, and ended up falling ever-so-gracefully to the floor like an utter disgrace. His knees hit first, cracking loudly on the wood slats, and the rest of him followed soon after, crumpling like wet paper. His chest pitched forward and he, thankfully, turned his head to the side so that his cheek hit the floor instead of cracking his chin on it, though it still smarted. The pain shot into his broken ribs had him keening, sending out a high-pitched whine as if he’d become a tea kettle. The angel had humiliated him plenty, but this really did it for him.

He at least managed to wrap his fingers uselessly around the stray bandage he’d meant to offer to Haven.

The witch herself had released her burden entirely, dropping her arms to her sides so that all the gauze she’d previously gathered now fell at her feet and rolled away, adding to the existing mess on the floor. She knelt in front of Envy and gingerly placed her hands on his upper arms, and she was saying something he couldn’t make out. The world was incessantly loud all of a sudden, ringing in his ears. Pain, his only sensation.

“H-help—” Envy croaked.

Fear rose in his throat, burned in his belly, and inflamed the space of his chest. It beat against the inside of his damaged ribcage, fighting to get free as if it were a trapped animal. Envy thought it was kind of funny, to think of it like that. To understand and sympathize with an emotion itself, because he too, was once a trapped animal.

His hands shook.

“-vy! Envy! Your Highness! Prince whatever!”

The witch called out to him. Envy struggled to take in a breath. He felt her rubbing her thumbs up and down where she held his arms, and that too, made an emotion well inside him. He couldn’t place the name of it.

“P-prince whatever,” he said, once he could take in a full breath.

His throat felt raw and scratchy.

“I didn’t know what to call you,” Haven replied, sheepishly.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a wobbly smile. Envy tried to maneuver his lips into doing the same, but he felt…odd. Disconnected from his body in a way that was not unfamiliar to his time spent in the cell with the angel, on the days where he would go someplace faraway into his mind when the pain became too much to bear. Even before, to a lesser degree, the numbness would come for him without warning. He saw it as being better than the torture, at least.

“Are you…” Haven said, but trailed off and bit her lip.

“Fine.”

Envy was not fine, had never been fine, and likely would never be fine again for as long as he lived. But he was just that—living, and that was all that likely mattered to the witch, if she even cared at all.

He regretted that last thought when he saw her face all scrunched up, appearing at once both sad and irate. Her eyes became red and misty, though no tears fell. She bunched her hands into fists at her sides and Envy thought she meant to hit him, though she only glared.

“Why did you do that?” she yelled.

Envy opened his mouth, but found he didn’t have an answer, or even any idea to what she was referring.

“I—” He remembered the bandage roll grasped loosely in his damaged fingers. “Oh.”

He held it up to Haven as far as his arm would give him the strength to, which to his dismay, wasn’t more than a few inches.

“I wanted to help,” he said.

Haven put a hand to her face and closed her eyes, then exhaled. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened. Envy noticed her unclench her fists and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Just focus on getting better. Okay? That’s how you can help.”

—

(taglist in reblogs)

#he's trying his best okay?#whump #whump writing #my writing #willow writes #demon whumpee #demon whump #original work: demon's haven #dissociation tw #self harm tw

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bltzgore · 9 months

Text

Tw: blood mention, powers, multiple whumpers, character death (not whumpee or caretaker), broken leg, young whumpee

I want a young hero whumpee. They're fighting a group of villian whumpers, getting tossed around like a toy, completely out numbered, out gunned, and bleeding...

Whumpee is tossed in front of a new villian, one that the others have been giving a healthy amount of space and respect. While they haven't been leading the group, but there is no doubt this is the one they're all scared of.

Whumpee trembles as they approach, just barely managing to pull themselves to their knees. Tears in their eyes from the pain and the fear. Their breath hitches as villian reaches down, getting a grip on their shirt and pulling them up to their eye line.

Villian is ready to finish this, that's what they were recruited to do after all. But as villian finally gets their first good look at Whumpee's face their eyes soften. Whumpee is young. Villian doubts they are even old enough to drink.

Whumpee whimpers, trying to get a grip on villian's wrist, rasping as blood runs down from their nose, "Just- G-get it over with."

God. They're a child. They're patched in blooming bruises, oozing blood from at least five places, and trying to break free and stand on their broken leg. How the hell did they get mixed up in this?

Whumpee can't take this. They're squirming under Villian gaze. They can't read it, but they stare back because it's the only part of villian they can see. Everything else is covered by mask, or cloth, or armor. Whumpee feels like they're eye to eye with death. They're terrified, they don't want to die! Will it hurt? How is Villian going to kill them?

Whumpee has a moment of self awareness, they must look so pathetic. They don't want to die a pathetic sniveling mess. Whumpee growls weakly and snarls, "Get it over with!" They scream, tears running down their face. "IF YOU'RE GONNA KILL ME, THEN KILL ME!" They seem to fall weak after that, spent, and shut their eyes tight.

Whumpee trembles in silence until...

"No."

They feel the ground against their legs. Is villian putting them down?

Whumpee opens their eyes the second they no longer feel Villan's grip on their clothes. They try to stand but their broken leg screams, and so do they. They stumble back against an alley wall, and managed to steady themselves. When they dare to look up villian has their back to them, facing the other members of their group.

One of them approaches villian, "What's up Villian. You gonna kill 'em or not?"

"No."

"Well if you're not gonna do it, I've always want to make that miserable runt scream until it can't-"

"I. Said. No."

Whumper 1 started to argue, but whumpee noticed that up and down villians arms ancient markings started to glow and twist through painfully bright neon oranges, yellows, pinks, and greens.

Whumper 1 didn't seem to notice, but the others sure did, beginning to back away, one or two even running.

Whumpee feels their skin prickle, and leans into the wall, guarding their head with the less mangled of their two arms.

"You won't lay a hand them ever again."

Even behind whumpee's eyelids, the light is impossibly bright.

Whumpee isn't sure how long they waited braced against the wall. Their protective stance is only broken by the arrival of a strangely gentle hand on their back.

"Easy now, you need to give that leg a rest."

Whumpee half collapses, half scrambles to the ground, trying to guard against any attacks. "Get the hell away from me!" They snap, taking a blind swipe as their eyes readjust, "T-touch me, and I'll break your goddamn arms!"

Villian withdraws, giving whumpee some space. "I'm sure you will. But before you do, please. Let me help you."

Whumpee shakes their head, showing their teeth in an attempt to hide a wince, "You were about t-t- to kill me."

Villian seems to curl inwards, looking away, "I was."

After a few moments of waiting for something else, and not getting it, whumpee asks, "Why didn't you?"

Villian takes their time on this one, trying to figure out how best to answer, ultimately sighing and shrugging, "Because I couldn't."

The silence returns, and again whumpee gets frustrated with it first.

"R-real talkative- aren't 'cha?"

Villian huffs a quite laugh that reflects in their eyes. "I suppose not. Now, will you let me patch you up?"

"Long as you don't incinerate me, yeah. I guess."

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #whumper #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump drabble #super hero whump #hero whump #hero whumpee #villian caretaker #multiple whumpers #whumper turned caretaker #defiant whumpee #tw broken bones

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quietly-by-myself · 2 years

Text

Shadow By My Fireplace - Chapter 8

Masterlist

Comments/commentary/feedback is always welcome! Thank you again for your support!

CW: slavery whump, electrocution, stress position, whipping, intimate/creepy whumper, silent whumpee, conditioned whumpee, voice whump, psychological abuse, discussion of consent for care/caretaking, scars, whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper, flashbacks/PTSD, self-blame, dislocated shoulder, references to branding

===

Sacha’s arms were brought above his head, pulling, pulling his weight above him until his arms were going to fall out of their sockets.His feet were just barely dangling above the ground. It was enough to make him want to scream in pain.

However, screaming was exactly what had landed him in that position.

A loud snap came from one of his shoulders. Pain exploded, like a small bomb had forced it out of place, spreading painful shrapnel in its place. Sacha let out a small whimper.

“What did I say, Sacha?”

Master was behind him.

Sacha shrank, pulling on his dislocated shoulder. He got the instinct to run at first, but it was quickly replaced with a paralyzing sort of fear. Sacha watched Master like a deer in the headlights as Master circled him like a vulture.

Master chuckled and tilted Sacha’s chin, admiring the bruises on his jaw and the hickies on his neck.

“You’re going to look so beautiful when I’m done with you.”

In his hand was a barbed whip. Sacha didn’t recognize it at first. Master typically used the cane, not a whip.

“Now, if you’re quiet, you might get some food tonight. Alright? Doesn’t that sound good?” Master had a wicked smile on his face as he moved around to Sacha’s back.

Sacha wanted to plead. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Something. He wanted to do something. Yet, all he could do was look on in fear. What choice did he have?

Sacha felt the pain of his flesh being torn open before he heard the crack of the whip. He couldn’t help himself - he screamed.

“What the fuck did I say about making noise, you piece of shit?”

Master circled around and grabbed Sacha’s jaw with bruising force. Sacha shrank back from Master’s touch, which only earned him another slap to the face, before the iron grip returned, stronger than before.

“I should gag you, but you have to learn to be silent.”

Master let go of Sacha and grabbed the remote out of his pocket. The electric shocks started. Sacha was helpless against them, thrashing, wrenching his dislocated shoulder further out of place. Tears quickly formed in his eyes.

Master slapped him again once the shocks were done. “I hope you remember your place.”

Sacha nodded frantically, but all it did was earn him another slap.

“You’re a slave. You don’t have opinions. You don’t respond. You’re to be quiet and obedient. I don’t give a shit about what you think. If I cared, I wouldn’t have bought you now, would I?”

Sacha forced himself to hold back sobs. He hated himself. He hated his situation. He hated that he couldn’t follow such simple orders.

I’m so stupid.

The whip was quick to crack on his back again. As it tore up his flesh, he remained perfectly silent, pliant, just as he was told. This was what he deserved, after all, for what he’d done.

What had he done, again?

—

In truth, Cyril didn’t buy just the materials for the bed when he was in town. He kept a small box in his closet of other things he’d bought for Shadow but wasn’t sure about. He wanted to respect Shadow. He didn’t want Shadow to feel infantilized by his care.

The line between respectful care and infantilizing seemed thin, even if Cyril knew he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was just anxious. Maybe the situation reminded him just enough of before to trigger his post-traumatic stress. Cyril didn’t know what had him so anxious, when care used to come so naturally, but he figured that it was an important line to be aware of.

One of the items in the box was a large bottle of scar cream. The pharmacist had certainly given him an odd look when he’d asked for an extra large bottle of it. Cyril would’ve normally cared an awful lot about the look, but he brushed it off. Shadow was more important than their gossip, wasn’t he?

Cyril didn’t know how to approach the topic with Shadow. The man didn’t really communicate with him. However, he saw the self-conscious way that Shadow always tried to cover his scars. Scar cream didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It might not get rid of the scars entirely, but it could help to reduce the angry look of them.

Part of Cyril felt that he was making the decision for Shadow. Shadow wouldn’t say no to anything. How could he know what Shadow wanted?

Cyril decided that if Shadow seemed happy about the scar cream, he would help the man apply it to the worst of his scars.

However, building the courage to ask was a different task. Cyril spent many hours in his garden thinking about how to ask Shadow without putting pressure if he didn’t want it. Eventually, Cyril decided to rip the bandaid off and deal with whatever happened. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t predict how Shadow would react.

“Shadow?”

Shadow snapped to attention from his place beside the fireplace. Cyril hated how Shadow always looked like he was hit when he paid attention to what he had to say.

“I- um.” Cyril wiped some of the sweat off of his forehead. “I bought scar cream for you in town. I don’t want to make that decision for you, but you cover your scars a lot and I thought that maybe reducing the look of them would help you.” Cyril swallowed a bit. “I know this cream. It’s really good stuff. It’ll definitely make them less noticeable, if that’s something you want.”

Shadow visually perked up, before he went back to the crumpled, sad mess in blankets on the floor. Cyril was beginning to realize that Shadow wasn’t just conditioned not to talk, but also to not show any emotions. The thought made him sick.

However, that perk was one of the biggest he’d seen from Shadow. He took that as Shadow genuinely wanting his scars to be reduced. Regardless, the scar cream wouldn’t do anything to him.

“I’ll go get it, okay? We can put it on after I shower.”

Again, Shadow was mostly motionless. However, as he turned to his bedroom to go shower, Cyril swore he might’ve seen a semblance of a smile on Shadow’s face.

—

The cream was cool against Sacha’s skin. It wasn’t slimy, just pleasantly cool, like a balm. Sacha felt himself relaxing a bit with his shirt off as Cyril applied the cream. Master had never done such a thing for him.

This… probably won’t be as bad.

I can bear this. I can bear whatever he does if I can be taken care of after.

Sacha felt some guilt at feeling that his Master had been bad to him. After all, he was a slave, there for another’s pleasure. How he was treated was of little consequence. He’d been an awful slave for Master.

However, with Cyril, he might’ve gotten something right. That gave Sacha hope, hope that he wouldn’t screw it all up like he had with Master. He knew he still deserved to pay in blood for the kindness Cyril showed him, but this kindness was so much more kind than the kindness Master had given him.

Everything changed when Cyril’s hand brushed over a particular scar on his hip bone.

Suddenly, Sacha was right back there with Master, back when he was a disobedient, bad slave.

Master was rubbing a bit of balm over his fresh brand. Sacha let out small curses each time Master hit a particularly deep part of the burn.

Master had been lenient then - not that Sacha didn’t pay for it later in blood. However, that night, right after his brand, he’d been allowed to speak.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. I know it hurts. I’m sorry that I had to do this. It’s for your own good, Sacha, baby.”

“Fuck you, Emery!”

“Be careful, Sacha. Just because I’m allowing you to talk right now doesn’t mean that you can squander my kindness.”

The memory brought tears to Sacha’s eyes. How could he have been so foolish back then? He knew he’d pay for it all later. Why hadn’t he just stayed silent? It was so much easier than talking, anyway.

Sacha hated his past self. He hadn’t understood his purpose, his place in the world. Regret filled him each time he looked back at the Sacha that shouted and cried and sang and talked.

What would Cyril do about the brand? Surely, he couldn’t stand another man’s mark on his slave. Sacha felt a panic attack forming in his chest. God, Cyril was going to cut it right out of him, wasn’t he? He was going to pay for allowing himself to be marked. He was going to pay for being allowed to relax. He was going to pay for the kindness, the bed, and the hot chocolate.

A big, heavy weight fell on his shoulders and covered and warmed his exposed back. Sacha felt Cyril’s arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug.

Sacha soon realized that the blanket covering him was heavy and navy blue. Cyril was hugging him and rocking him a bit.

“It’s okay, Shadow.”

Sacha looked up at him. He’d looked pathetic again, hadn’t he? He had stopped his new Master from carrying out another punishment.

Tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t hold back his sobs, but at least he could make them silent.

“Shhh, Shadow, you’re safe here.”

Sacha refused to believe it. He would never be safe. Safety wasn’t for slaves like him.

“It’s okay to cry. You were whimpering a lot.”

Sacha looked up at him, fear overwhelming him. Another panic attack formed in his chest. He’d made noise. He’d made noise. He wasn’t quiet. He was going to be punished.

“It’s okay, Shadow. I don’t mind you… whimpering. I do mind. I don’t like seeing you in pain. But I would never hurt you for that.”

Sacha knew they were all lies to get him to trust. Trust, only so his trust could be broken later. That was how people like Cyril liked their slaves, right? Trusting, then untrusting, then trusting again.

“Listen… none of this is a trick. You’re here to heal. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to make noise. Okay?”

Sacha was overwhelmed with the urge to obey.

Right. He wants me to be happy sometimes.

Will it hurt more when he betrays me?

Sacha melted in Cyril’s arms, under the weight of the blanket that was taking away his worries and calming his panic.

I should enjoy this while it lasts.

Sacha let out a few more broken sobs, allowing Cyril to hug him tighter. Yes, he would enjoy the comfort while it lasted. It was better than pain, after all.

===

Tags (always open!): @whumpsday, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @pigeonwhumps, @darkthingshappen, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @darlingwhump, @maracujatangerine, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

#shadow by my fireplace #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #conditioned whumpee #cw are above #silent whumpee #slavery whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #whump fic #whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper #whump community #electrocution whump #branding whump #stress position

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whumpurr · 1 year

Text

Adrien and Sawdust part 21

cw: abduction, unreliable narrator, capture, pet whump, intimate whumper (no n/s/f/w)

masterlist

Sawdust’s whole body went cold. It started at the tip of his nose, then down to his lips, and spread down his whole self. He didn’t understand what was happening. He knew that Ma’am was kissing him, but humans don’t kiss dogs. His old master would kiss the women he brought home sometimes, Sawdust would see through the cracks in the wood of the dog shed, looking into the window of the house. But this was wrong, it was disgusting, he was disgusting.

Just as soon as Ma’am kissed him, it was over and she was pulling back with her hand ruffling his hair. She left him to go and prepare herself for bed. Sawdust could do nothing but curl up in his dog bed and do the same, hoping that the chilling feeling that coursed through his bones would fade away.

Sawdust awoke to the sun coming through the crack in Ma’am’s curtain. He did not remember the last time he slept past the sunrise. Ma’am was no longer in her large, comfortable looking bed, so Sawdust saw fit to carefully creep out of the room like the disobedient pup he was. At least he didn’t disobey further by walking on two legs like a person. He crawled down out of the room, and eventually made his way through the expansive, winding halls to find the kitchen, where Ma’am was cooking.

“Oh! Good morning, puppy!” She held the pan in one hand and pet Sawdust’s head with the other. “I’ll go wake up Adrien, too.”

She took something from the pan and put it on a plate before turning the stove off and leaving the kitchen. Sawdust remained, trembling, sitting on the floor.

The sudden, glaring light from the door to the basement was abrasive on Adrien’s eyes. His head still hurt from the crash, and his shoulders and arms were aching from being tied back how Sarah had done. He squinted at the light.

“Your cute little doggy is waiting for us,” Sarah approaches and stoops down next to him, unlocking the cuffs binding his hands, “If you misbehave, it’ll be bad for him, do you understand, darling?”

“Y-Yes,” Adrien said, voice hoarse.

“You’ll sit up at the table with me. If only to keep Sawdust clueless.” Her face had some kind of awful porcelain smile plastered on it.

“Why did you have to bring him into this?” Adrien trembled as he stood, “You could’ve dropped him off at a- a shelter, or-”

“I wanted a cute little puppy!” Sarah laughed, voice cold underneath it, “You’re not so cute anymore, Adrien. Maybe it’s those dark circles under your eyes? Or all that muscle? I dunno, now come on up with me, and behave yourself.”

Adrien had to reacquaint himself with walking as he tried to make himself look at least a little bit presentable. He didn’t want to make Sawdust worry, so he was reluctant to proceed upstairs without looking as normal as possible. After stalling as much as he could, Adrien finally was led upstairs by Sarah.

Adrien would like to think that if Sawdust had a real tail, it’d be wagging- judging by the sudden excitement in his eyes when he spotted his owner. Sarah escorted Adrien to his seat, regrettably not the one next to Sawdust, as that was the one that she eagerly took. The table was still small enough that Adrien could probably pet Sawdust’s head if he reached over, but he did not want to try that out of fear of upsetting the woman across from him.

Sarah went into the kitchen and returned with two plates of pancakes and a bowl of dog food and one of water for Sawdust, setting each meal in front of each respective person. Sawdust immediately began eating, while Adrien used his fork to lift up the top pancake to look underneath it and make sure there wasn’t some kind of poison or drug hidden inside the stack. If Sarah noticed, she didn’t mention it.

“So,” She said, cutting into her food, “Sawdust, did Adrien ever talk about me?”

Adrien’s heart stopped for a moment. The closest he’d gotten to speaking of Sarah to Sawdust was more or less slandering her in a vague way. He hoped desperately that Sawdust didn’t put together that the woman he was talking about then was the same one who was sitting next to him.

“Pets d-don’t talk.” Sawdust muttered, throwing a glance over to Adrien before looking back down and leaning down to continue eating his food.

Sarah sighed a familiar sigh to Adrien. She tapped her fork on the edge of her plate a few times then put it down on the table and stood up. Sawdust turned and started lapping at the water bowl, seemingly purposefully avoiding looking at Sarah.

“Now, I know you’re new here-” Sarah turned to Sawdust and, using one foot, pressed his face down into his water bowl. He immediately began squirming and struggling, unable to breathe. “-But I expect you to use some common sense, okay, puppy?” She pushed even harder. “I didn’t bring you in for you to be stupid. Okay? I really want a-”

“That’s enough, Sarah!” Adrien yelled, standing up and taking a step around the table towards her. She turned her head to him and rolled her eyes, but lifted her foot and sat back down, leaving Sawdust to cough and sputter at her side.

Sarah said nothing and resumed her meal as though nothing had happened. Adrien risked making her even angrier by kneeling next to Sawdust, his hand gently resting on Sawdust’s back.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay now,” He whispered to Sawdust, who was still hacking up water, hands braced on the floor. Sarah had always been on the more temperamental side, but she never did anything like that to Adrien in their shared history. His blood ran cold at the thought of what she would do to Sawdust when he wasn’t looking.

Slowly, Sawdust’s coughing tapered out and Adrien moved his hand from his back, to softly petting his head.

“Do you think you can keep eating?” Adrien nudged Sawdust’s food bowl a bit closer to him. As much as he was reluctant to tell Sawdust, he believed that it was within the realm of possibility that Sarah would not give Sawdust another meal until tomorrow.

Sawdust whimpered and trembled, but he got back to eating. He wanted to listen to his master, his real master. His chest hurt, but he ate until he was finished. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong to upset Ma’am so much.

Finished with his food, Sawdust sat back and glanced up at Master Adrien, hoping that his master would not be too disgusted at his tearful face. A disgusting mutt, with a disgusting face.

“I’m so sorry, dear.” Master Adrien said, softly holding his pet’s face.

“Hey,” Ma’am sneered, having finished her food. She reached across the table and picked up Master Adrien’s plate, then dropped it on the floor. It thankfully didn’t break, even if Sawdust couldn’t stop himself from flinching as though it did, but the food was spilled everywhere. “You forgot that.”

Ma’am pushed her chair back and went back up into her room, footsteps fading off. As soon as Sawdust stopped hearing her steps, Master suddenly grabbed Sawdust and pulled him close into a hug.

It was nearly crushing.

“Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” He asked. Sawdust shook his head once Master let him go.

“She- she k-kiss- kissed me…” Sawdust admitted.

A sudden darkness swept over Master Adrien’s features, one that made Sawdust scared.

“We’re going to get out of here, okay?” Master stood, helping Sawdust to stand on his unsteady paws. Sawdust didn’t dare defy his Master.

Master Adrien brough Sawdust to the front door. He hesitated a bit before he turned the knob and opened it.

A gust of cool morning air greeted them both. Master Adrien took a careful step outside, then shut the door behind them. He had to keep a steady hold around Sawdust just to keep the pathetic pet standing.

Outside was an open field. Ma’am’s car was parked in front of the house, but aside from that, the field stretched empty for yards, only a dirt road leading out towards a bigger street. Master Adrien was considerably slower, having to help Sawdust to walk.

A pit of dread bubbled in Sawdust’s stomach. This couldn’t be right, didn’t Ma’am want him? Want them both? Was she just going to let them go like this?

Just as Sawdust was wondering, he heard the sound of Ma’am’s car start up, the crunch of dirt and gravel beneath its tires fast approaching. They were no more than halfway down the field, and she caught up easily. Master looked like he was about to cry.

“Are you serious?” Ma’am said, rolling down her window. “Get in the backseat.”

Reluctantly, Master opened the door and let Sawdust get into the car first, before climbing in himself. The two of them were silent on the incredibly short drive back, but Ma’am spoke.

“I’m going to let you off easy this time, since I care about you. But if you ever try that again, you’re going to be punished. Do you understand?”

Not wanting to disobey Ma’am with his silence again, Sawdust answered a small affirmative, and Master Adrien did the same. She parked the car and got out, then opened the back door and dragged both of them out by their arms, leading them back into her house.

“You wait here.” She jabbed a finger into Master Adrien’s shoulder, then looked at Sawdust, “And you, come with me.”

Ma’am didn’t wait a second before going back to her room. She instructed Sawdust to wait inside while she left. Sawdust sat on the floor while he heard Ma’am and Master Adrien talking, though his useless, sub-par ears couldn’t make out what they were saying. They both soon grew quiet, and Ma’am returned to Sawdust shortly after. She kneeled down next to him.

“Now Sawdust,” She cupped his cheek in her hand, “I care a lot about you, okay? I just want to make sure you’re safe. There are all kinds of dangerous animals out there that would want to eat a cute little puppy like you!”

Sawdust couldn’t help but gasp a little. He was well aware of the other dogs at his old master’s house who wanted to eat them sometimes, and he had heard of even more ferocious creatures out in the wild, like wolves and bears.

“I don’t know what Adrien was thinking, bringing a little puppy out into the open like that! You could’ve gotten hurt!” Ma’am pouted, “But you’re lucky that I found you before you could wander too far. Now I want you to stay inside so you can be safe, okay darling?”

Sawdust had never felt safe before. He did quite look forward to being safe with Ma’am in her house. He gave her a small nod,

“Y- Yes, Ma’am.”

taglist @starnight-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @neuro-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @whumpcreations @dancinglifeboat @pinkraindropsfell @looptheloup @cowboy-anon @meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @it-will-all-whump-out @theydy-cringeworthy @kim-poce @bluetheautisticrat @whump-in-progress @wh-wh-whu @mylifeisonthebookshelf @grizzlie70 @wolfeyedwitch @nicolepascaline @melancholy-in-the-morning @jumbledbyrd @batfacedliar-yetagain @no-terms-and-conditions-apply

#whump #pet whump #pet whumpee #my writing #whump ocs #whump writing #emotional whump #whump fic #whump blog #Adrien and sawdust

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whumpfish · 7 months

Text

It has come to this. I have content blocked the word Caretaker.

This has been a slow spiral into doneness for a while. At first I content blocked just the main phrase present in the most egregious ableist woobery, "Caretaker's heart breaks." Then I blocked "Caretaker raises their voice." Then I blocked "Whumpee cowers" because sometimes woobie "Whumpees" confused their trusted Caretaker for their evil Whumper over something similarly trivial and unrealistic but not exactly. Then I had to block "cowers" because sometimes it was "Whumpee just cowers" and it wound up on my dash anyway. Then I thought if I blocked "all the things the whumper did" I would remove whumpless "whump" from my dash. That would take care of the people who want to write after but can't handle their own before, right? Spare me that, at least? Nope.

I'm not the only one who has asked for this woobie shit to be tagged. For it to at least be tagged as "infantilization" if you don't self-identify as woobie. But it hasn't been. Not once, that I've seen. And I've been watching for it, hoping.

And that tells me something depressing about the state of the community. It tells me that a lot of folks don't see infantilization and ableism as a problem. It tells me that a lot of folks don't care as long as their soft blanket power fantasy is satisfied. It tells me that a lot of folks have no intent to afford the same courtesy to others that they insist others afford them. It tells me that this community is no longer the one I joined years ago, that was my literal salvation when I was bedridden.

One where "Caretakers" were optional because it was the whumpees who were the focus of the narrative because we were here to explore pain and vulnerability in a place where it isn't sanitized with blankets and soup. One where we could confront the reality that such "Caretakers" as have become popular do not exist, and have that acknowledged in a space that was ours, away from a mainstream fiction culture that likes to imagine itself in that role... right up until the moment they'd actually have to do it. One where we could get away from that self-fellating performative sympathy.

I hate making these posts. I hate feeling like I'm "being negative" when I'm asking for basic genre parameters to be respected... which is what this makes me feel like because I've been - wait for it - conditioned to think that I'm an annoyance and a burden on Normal People in Normal Society, and that standing my ground is unreasonable, impolite, dragging people down, and just overall Killing The Mood.

And I can literally feel the vagueposts forming in the aether. About "whump" that contains no actual whump ever being ValidTM and don't let people make you feel bad if you mislabel your posts. I hate having to make these posts and I hate how often I'm driven to it, because the thing is, I'm not asking a lot.

If I labeled my dead dove shit #angst, y'all would lose your shit. If I tagged my caretakerless whump #hurt/comfort, y'all would lose your shit. It would be the end of the goddamn world. I would be a pariah--and rightly so, because dead dove isn't angst and hurt/comfort is literally the only genre extant where comfort is mandatory. Whump is a genre about pain, and as such, pain is explicitly necessary for something to belong to that genre. It's not personal. It's categorization. It's being able to find what you're looking for and avoid what you're not.

I don't put my watermelon in your casserole. Don't put your broccoli in my fruit salad. That's just basic courtesy. I don't hate casserole, I like me a good casserole every once in a while. I just get aggravated when I find broccoli in my fruit salad, because the whole reason I opened the container of fruit salad in the first place was that I wanted fruit, not greens. My goal when I write these things is not to make anyone feel bad, it's to make people be aware.

I am just. So tired. I want my community back. Maybe this latest measure will allow me to have that again... I'm just aggravated that I had to take it.

#time to be the scourge of the internet again #one fist of iron #the other of steel #if the right one don't get you then the left one will #whump meta #im so sick of this y'all #but im not going to slink off #or give up #not in my repertoire #remember the alamo bitches #fish speaks

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astaldis · 10 months

Text

Nauseous

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Cahir

Whumper: Emhyr var Emreis

Exerpt from chapter 6 of ‘Prison Blues’ - Warning: Maggots

"Splendid. Then let's make a deal. You eat this one bowl of food right in front of my eyes to show you respect my orders. And, as a reward, I'll have better food sent to you in the future." Smiling a self-satisfied smile at his ingeniously benevolent proposal, he motions to one of the guards to bring the usual rancid, alive-with-maggots goo and bread that is supposed to be food.

As always, Cahir's stomach starts to turn just at the sight and smell. However, with the Emperor looking and the ever looming threat of being turned over to the torture master once again if he does not comply, he fights down the rising bile and takes a deep, steadying breath through his half-open mouth to avoid the worst of the stench. It is only food, not an instrument of torture. It cannot truly hurt him, even if it is utterly disgusting. Moreover, having to eat maggots can hardly be more humiliating than having to strip before the Emperor, can it? And he has done that. He is still naked on the floor. He only has to keep it down as long as the White Flame is watching, too. He can do this. He must. Still, his eyes well up with tears of shame as he brings the maggoty piece of bread to his mouth. He gags reflexively and quickly closes his eyes. Maybe it won't be as bad if he cannot see the wriggling white grubworms? But he can feel them moving in his mouth when he has taken the first bite. Which is decidedly worse. Valiantly suppressing the strong urge to hurl and spit it all out, he chews quickly and tries to swallow. However, it does not work. The bread is too dry, as is his mouth. And he is still missing a tongue to help with the swallowing. Cahir coughs and gags again. Desperate, he opens his eyes to look for the bowl with water.

"Here, take a sip. You are doing good. And I am here to help." The Emperor passes him the bowl with the tepid water, smiling down at the prisoner encouragingly. Gingerly Cahir gulps down some of the liquid and with it the bread that is in his mouth. And the maggots. They still feel alive as they go down his gullet with the rest of the food. No, don't think about it. Just do it again. Some more mouths full, a few more horrible minutes, and then it will be over. He takes another bite of the bread.

When Cahir has finally managed to eat up, his face is glistening with cold sweat and looking almost green. He is shaking and feels like he has to vomit any second now, but he cannot let that happen. This whole ordeal will be for nought if he does while the Emperor is still here.

"See, it isn't so difficult to follow my orders." Emhyr pats Cahir on the naked shoulder approvingly. "And it will be worth while, you'll see tomorrow. As I promised." He turns toward the door. "And, Cahir, you need to exercise. Regularly. The guards will make sure you do. I need you fighting-fit when the time comes."

The door closes behind the White Flame. Finally. And not a second too early. Cahir just manages to reach the bucket before his stomach convulses violently and he retches everything up again. Bits of bread and goo and maggots and all.

Prison Blues

Published: 2022-06-04; Completed: 2022-08-03

Words: 32,672; Chapters: 14/14

Summary: While sitting around the campfire with his companions, Jaskier sings one of his favourite songs. Which elicits a very unexpected reaction from one of the more recent additions to the company. Jaskier can be such an idiot once in a while. The good thing is - he knows and is ready to apologise. However, things are much worse than he anticipated and a quick sorry nowhere near enough.

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Category: Gen

Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Emhyr var Emreis; Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Jaskier | Dandelion; Assire var Anahid & Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach; Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Merlin The Cat

Additional Tags: Friendship; Trauma; Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD; Torture; Aftermath of Torture; netflix season 2 compliant; Spoilers for The Witcher (TV) Season ; Angst; Vomiting; Sexual Abuse; Maggots; Emhyr is an evil bastard; Hurt/Comfort; Whump; a few days after the battle on the bridge; and directly after season 2 ends; Panic Attacks; Cats are the best; and bards; Jaskier is a good friend; Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Has a Bad Time

Read ‘Prison Blues’ on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39433770

#whumpers-monthly #issue no 19 #nauseous #maggots #torture #the witcher #Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach #cahir #eamon farren #emhyr var emreis #bart edwards #Cahir Whump #whump #hurt/comfort

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watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees · 1 year

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Thank you

masterlist

tw: self harm, forced self harm, depression, captivity, triggering someone on purpose, knives, blood, non-con touch (non sexual), threats, blood loss, breaking someone’s psyche beyond repair basically, kidnapping mention, weightloss and malnutrition mention, dehydration, healed scars, multiple whumpers mentioned, flashback

I wrote this on my way home from university for the weekend (which is like a 4 hour train ride) and I made myself cry with it, and I haven't been able to proofread it or anything so,,, here it goes i guess

Tw again: This is a very fucking heavy piece, i cried through writing it im not even joking biggest dead dove do not eat

To be fair, she was totally unphased by the sight of the knife in Cole’s hand. She welcomed the pain that was to come as an old friend, crying or begging never helped, there was no relief when she was angry at the world, angry at the people keeping her captive, so she just accepted it. It was quiet and calm, maybe not the best decision, but the circumstances left her no choice.

He walked back to her from the table where he kept the array of knives and other fun devices to torture the girl.

“Stand up, please” he reached under her chin, lightly touching the skin. As she was standing up it looked like he was lifting her by the chin just with one finger, and though physically it didn’t work like that, the sheer threat behind the touch basically lifted her. She was a feather and he was the wind making her float.

She was noticably smaller than the man, even though they were almost the same height. Her figure was frail and weak. The long sleeved t-shirt she was wearing covered both her arms, whose muscles used to show through them, not in a bulky way but in one that earned some respect at the gym and she walked around freely, without worrying about being overpowered by someone; it took years of martial arts classes and trainings. It was all gone by now. She didn’t remember how or when it happened but she stopped caring. They didn’t allow her to work out even though she was promised to be let “doing her thing when she wasn’t needed” at first it was the restraints, then the comments turned into threats and punishments that slowly made her stop. It has been too long.

Now she was standing in front of the man, not being able to even breathe without his permission. Cole was always stronger and now he seemed superhuman compared to her.

He looked her up-and-down, twirling the knife in his hand. He seemed to have decided when he looked back to her face, patiently waiting for her to make eye contact.

“Roll your sleeves up” he gestured towards her lower arm with the knife. He grabbed her hand when she did so, and glided the knife playfully over her arm.

He must’ve felt the unevenness of her skin because he held the blade away from her and started carressing the barely visible scars.

She shivered from the touch, it wasn’t necessarily cruel or mocking like it usually is when he touches her, but these scars were different and he seemed to treat them differently and somehow that was so much worse. It was unpredictable.

“Was it… was it Luke?” he asked already knowing the answer was no. She looked away to the floor, felt her cheeks blush with a feeling similar to guilt but she couldn’t quite put a finger on what it actually was.

“No” she whispered. His hand stilled for a moment before carrying on with carressing her skin and turning the knife back towards her.

“Then you’ll be comfortably familiar with this feeling” he smiled and without a second of hesitation drove the knife into her skin. The blade didn’t go too deep, just enough to draw blood.

She stared at the fresh cut and suddenly she was back in her room. Some tiny red drops got onto the carpet and she was thinking about how she’ll have to scrub it out. There wasn’t anyone holding her hand, she was resting it on her lap for a moment. She promised it to herself so many times not to do it again, but she felt like she couldn’t help it when she found the tiny blade in the drawer on her desk. She held it up to the light and read the brand name again, feeling a bit sorry for the small piece of metal, it wasn’t designed for this purpose.

She drew another line on her skin, reveling in the radiating pain that shot up her arm again. It hurt so bad and still not as much as whatever she was dealing with at the time. She felt in control. And she did it again.

She caught herself falling against his chest, grabbing onto her bleeding arm. Not remembereing how she started crying.

“It’s okay” he held her by the elbow. He turned her around hugging her from the back. WIth his left still holding her wrist. The right accidentally dripping blood on her shirt and pants searched for her right hand. She desperately held onto him. As if holding his hand would bring any reconciliation. Suddenly the knife was in her palm and his hand over hers, making her hold it up. It looked so much bigger in her hand. The clean part of the blade glinted dangerously as the grey light from the window hit it. It was already dusking.

‘Your turn” he whispered into her ear, not even waiting for a response just pushing her hand back down, pressing the blade down for the fourth time.

His warmth disappeared from behind her. She was sitting at her desk again. Drawing her own blood over and over again. There was no purpose to it anymore. The pain from the wounds all mixed together it didn’t make a difference.

Why did she even do it? Everything was alright for a while, and all of a sudden it weighed her down. Did she really want something good turn for worse again? Was having it good a bad thing? She didn’t think she deserved it after all. That must’ve been behind the thoughtless movements. Breaking the skin over and over again. Opening old wounds. Creating new ones. Covering it all. That was the rhythm for weeks.

It all stopped when that particular someone held her hand for the first time and helped her up from where she was sitting in her room.

Now the feeling of the hand over hers was much colder. It didn’t radiate warmth and safety through her veins, making her feel at piece with whatever came along the way; it was empty as if Cole’s touch made it all evaporate into nothing cutting through space and time.

He rested his chin on her shoulder inhaling deeply, enjoying the shivers each breath sent down her spine. He felt the warmth of the tears that ran down her face staining his cheek as well.

“Now, thank me” he whispered, slolwy lifting her hand with the knife up. It took her a few seconds to understand the words though she still wasn’t in the place to comprehend them. “Did you hear me?” he asked gently, still threateningly. She moved her head in a way that could’ve been mistaken as a nod and that was enough on his part. He knew she wasn’t grabbing onto the knife so he let go, letting her hand fall limply down to her thigh and the knife to hit the cement ground with loud metallic clatter. She flinched back into his chest with a bit of delayed reaction time. He repeated the order, slowly and quietly.

“Tha- th- thank y-y-you” she stuttered.

“For what?” He let go of her cut up hand to reach across her torso and pull her into a snakelike hug from behind. He pushed a kiss into the crook of her neck smiling, when she didn’t know how to answer. She breathed in, but the air got stuck in her throat and no words came out.

“What are you thanking me for?” his smile grew even wider.

“F- f- for hurting me” her tone suggested she wasn’t sure of the answer being right.

“No” he answered sweetly “You hurt yourself, remember? You held the knife” he tightened the embrace making breathing even more difficult for her. She was panicking, he felt her pulse through her neck quicken.

“for holding m- … -lf” The correct answer struck her like lightning, she couldn’t get it to be audible the first time. Of course it was the one that hurt the most. She took a deep breath, and the words fell from her lips whether she wanted them to or not.

“Thank you for holding my hand while I hurt myself”

#self harm tw #forced self harm #depression #captivity #triggering someone on purpose #tw sh #tw knives #tw knife #tw noncon #tw threats #tw bloodloss #tw kidnap mention #tw weighloss #tw malnutrition #tw dehydration #tw scars #flashback tw #danse macabre original story

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whumpsday · 2 years

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Kane & Jim #29: Slice

~ Whumpmas in July Day 21: Bleeding ~

Masterlist

content: vampire whumper, captivity, knife/cutting

a short one! takes place in the later years of jim’s captivity, well after Broken.

Another night in Kane’s house. Wake up, shower, breakfast, be fed on, and do whatever all night in this room until he fell asleep. Do it all again the next night.

Forever.

Jim opened the fridge to get the ingredients for his dinner. He’d have to rotate the drawings tacked to it, his newer ones were much better and there wasn’t any more room. He had a passing thought of asking Kane for a how-to guide, but decided against it. Learning how to draw through trial and error was a way to pass time, and he didn’t want to make the process any faster. It wasn’t like anyone else would ever see them.

He grabbed some stuff for a sauté, nothing fancy tonight, and started chopping vegetables. This was okay. Peaceful, even. He liked cooking, had even before it was one of the only good things in his life. A lot of people would find joy in this kind of life, maybe. Introverts. Jim was the furthest thing from an introvert, but he was making the best of it. He’d build a little life for himself yet.

It was so stupid. A noise. Not even a particularly scary one, just the sound of Kane probably dropping something.

Whatever it was, it made him startle. He was always jumpy, these days. It would have been fine if he wasn’t holding the knife.

As his arms curled together on instinct, Jim gasped as the blade he clutched in his right hand sliced through his opposite wrist.

Blood. There was so much blood. The pain of it was nothing compared to the overwhelming fear, the sight of his blood splashing onto the floor. Kane had already fed from him tonight, he couldn’t afford to lose more!

Oh god, I’m going to die. Jim burst into tears, his breaths coming quick and shallow.

Kane. A vampire could close the wound.

“Kane!” he shouted, his voice desperate and fearful. He ran to the locked door, dripping blood behind him, and pounded against it with his right fist. “Kane, help! Please!”

The door opened, Jim flinching back at the appearance of his tormenter, despite calling him here.

He stuck out his bleeding arm, shoulders quaking as he cried. “Help, it’s, it’s-”

“Fuck, what did you manage to do?” Kane snapped.

Jim stumbled, beginning to feel dizzy, but Kane caught him before he could fall. He tensed, terrified of being held in his owner’s arms.

“Let me see that.” Kane grabbed Jim’s arm and held it up to his mouth, running his tongue along the slash.

Jim relaxed as the wound closed. The pain was still there, he wasn’t healed. But at least the bleeding had stopped, a long scab in its place. He wasn’t going to die.

“There. You’re fine.” Kane announced, letting go of him. Jim took a couple of cautious steps back. Kane pointed at the blood painting the floor. “Clean that up. Don’t do that again, wasting perfectly good blood. That’s half tomorrow’s meal!"

Jim’s heart spiked at the irritation in his voice.

He’d been doing so well. Kane hadn’t hurt him in... it must have been months, at this point. He’d been keeping to himself, keeping quiet. Often, the only time he saw Kane was for feeding, and he was behaving. If he was stuck with this life, he might as well stop fighting it.

“It was an accident. Didn’t, didn’t mean to.” Jim whispered, trembling with fear and blood-loss. Kane was angry with him. He was going to be hurt more. Jim sobbed, wrapping his arms around himself, cringing away from his owner. He debated tacking a “sir” onto the end, but he still had a sliver of self-respect. He would only resort to that once Kane made a move to hit him.

Kane sighed. “Just don’t do it again. Don’t be a crybaby, you’re fine. Look, I fixed it.” He gestured to Jim’s arm. “Relax.”

He thinks I’m still upset about my arm. He doesn’t realize I’m afraid of him. The realization was jarring. To him, Kane was a terrifying monster. But Kane wouldn’t see himself that way.

Jim nodded tearfully, quieting himself again.

“Anything else?” Kane asked, eyebrow raised.

He was so lonely. Part of him wanted to follow Kane back out into the living room, hang out with him while he wasn’t being mean, like he used to. Watch a movie, play cards, listen to Kane rant about vampire drama. Just be with another person.

But he didn’t. He was tired. He was scared.

Jim shook his head.

“Alright, then.” Kane left, locking the door behind him.

Jim looked around. He had to clean the blood off the floor and counter, and he’d barely gotten past the prep stage of dinner. His vegetables were covered in blood now, too. May be appetizing to Kane, but not to him.

He still woozy from the blood-loss. He just wanted to lie down. But there was no one else to clean up after him, no one else to make him a meal. He decided that he’d make himself something low-effort like a sandwich after he finished, sluggishly heading to the closet to grab a mop.

@whumpmasinjuly

taglist:

@annablogsposts

@badluck990

@ceph-the-writing-spook

@cicatrix-energy

@crying-wings

@crystalquartzwhump

@cupcakes-and-pain

@cyberneticfire

@darlingwhump

@deluxewhump

@down-in-the-whumps

@elrysdoesstuff

@extemporary-whump

@extrabitterbrain

@harri-00

@inpainandsuffering

@interdimensional-chaos

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lactose-intolerant-egg

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@littlespacecastle

@little-whumpee

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@morning-star-whump

@msjessmahler

@myhusbandsasemni

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@neverthelass

@nicolepascaline

@nine-tailed-whump

@no-terms-and-conditions-apply

@not-a-space-alien

@octopus-reactivated

@oddsconvert

@onlybadendings

@owencarvourenthusiast

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@quietly-by-myself

@quirkykayleetam

@ramadiiiisme

@redwhump

@scp-1296

@secretwhumplair

@the-whumperfly-effect

@thecyrulik

@thegreatwhodini

@themarlo

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whump-me-all-night-long

@whump-queen

@whumpthisway

@whumpilicious

@whumpshaped

@whumpwillow

@whumpworld

@whumpy-writings

@whumpyzombie

@wits-and-wrongs

@wolfeyedwitch

#kane and jim #whump #my writing #wij2022 #whumpmasinjuly #vampire whumper #captivity #whump writing

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verkja · 2 years

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Day 11: Favourite whump flavours

Already did my favourite whump tropes for Day 1, so here I’ll go into a little more detail on the ones that are specifically genres or types.

Torture whump: The kind with dungeons and horrible iron devices and plenty of blood. Pain is great by itself, but pain and damage - extra nice.

Emotional whump/angst: Especially the drawn-out kind. Resignation, bitterness, self-hatred, defence mechanisms that do more harm than good, all built up over decades of a generally miserable life - wow. Yes. Probably my favourite kind of whump.

Environmental whump: Comes with opportunities for beautiful imagery, and it doesn’t even need a whumper! Cold whump especially is great; hypothermia symptoms are very whumpy, and it helps that cuddling is a viable treatment.

Social outcast whump: Easier to feel hopeless and isolated (and perhaps like you deserve it) when you aren’t being victimised by just one person, but by all of society. This works really well with angst.

Comfort: Respect and consent and communication, and hugs, and characters who make mistakes but try their very best because they care about each other. Also understated, unintentional comfort - a character being deeply moved by what another character sees as an everyday gesture, because people don’t usually bother extending that sort of kindness to them.

‘Whump with plot’: While I like short scenes with unnamed characters too, whump hits me hardest when I’m invested in the characters. Longer stories give the chance to see them in different situations, including non-whumpy ones, and so get to know them better.

And these, which don’t need detail:

Mediaeval (fantasy) whump

Sci-fi whump

Villain (coded) whump

Gore

Mutual caretaking (which I could say more about, but isn’t quite a flavour; just wanted to sneak it in again anyway because I love it)

#WiJ22 #wij22day11 #whumpmasinjuly #whump tropes #whump meta #sort of #info post #also sort of #alt text

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

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Whumpuary Series Pt. 12

Prev. || Masterlist

Ayyy Whumpee’s got a name! Finally!

Cw: torture, burns, gags, restraints, thoughts/acceptance of death, self sacrifice for a cause, kinda sensory deprivation (noise canceling headphones?)

Noah knew their intel was the only thing keeping them alive.

If it wasn’t for the snippets of information tucked in the back of his mind, guarded with the strongest defenses he could muster, Whumper wouldn’t have killed him already. He would have killed him the moment that first day in his office, he would have pulled the trigger. Noah knew the whole spiel, despite how Whumper fixed to cover their intentions.

“Tell me who you work for, Noah, and I’ll let you rest. Tell me this, tell me that, tell me, tell me, tell me, and all your pain will end.”

Spill your secrets and I’ll spill your guts, more like it.

Noah was good at keeping his mouth shut. It’s what had kept him alive for so long, both in the compound and before. He knew there were times where it was better to sit quietly, let whatever was happening happen and pray that the consequences weren’t too awful. Don’t throw kerosene onto a fire unless you want to burn the place down, right? A lesson he had learned rather quickly on, and one he hadn’t forgotten easily. Respectful, submissive silence. Pride, dignity, those had been stripped away from him long ago, so it didn’t matter much now anyways. Whumper could do whatever they wanted to him, and he wouldn’t crack.

If he were to speak, to tell Whumper the words that laid just behind his pressed lips, it would be over. His life would be over, the cause he was willing to sacrifice so much to. Not that his life seemed to matter much in the eyes of, well, everyone, but the cause. He clung onto the cause like a match in the dark, letting it light the small way in front of him, though it did little against the pressing void of unsure.

Noah didn’t want to die. Of course not. But he knew there was only two possible ways out of this, this awful situation. Escape, which was just about as probable as Whumper up and deciding to let him go, or death. The cold release into the unknown. He didn’t want to say he was prepared for it, now could one ever really prepare for the sharp transition from life to death? But the looming fate had become less threatening over time. Almost comforting, in a manner, knowing it would be waiting for him once he was ready to shift from one hell to another. Or rather, when Whumper was ready for him to.

This was Whumper’s game. By keeping their mouth shut, Noah wasn’t refusing to play. They were delaying their turn. There was no timer, no little glass filled with sand ticking down the seconds. It wasn’t just Whumper’s game, it was Whumper’s board. The cards were stacked, dice weighted. The rounds were long and exhausting, grueling in both a physical and mental manner. The end was nowhere in sight

And right now, Whumper was winning the match. They were playing chess, and Whumpee couldn’t even figure out the rules to checkers.

Noah was in a room, not all unlike Whumper’s office. Same minimalistic design, same dark wood furnishing. There were no windows, which wasn’t all that surprising, but the room didn’t give off a cramped, claustrophobic feel like most did.

There was a table in the center, nearly stretching the length of the room, six leather chairs on each side and one at each head. On the table there were a few decorations, open laptops and paperwork, and an odd succulent centerpiece placed to add to the office feel. There were two doors, one on the far short wall and another wider one on the wall left of where Noah was now situated.

People sat around the table, all but three of the fourteen seats occupied. Dressed to business formal, Noah didn’t see a single person without pressed slacks or some sort of tie.

Whumper sat at the seat closest to him, the head of the table, laptop open in front of them. By the way their shoulders moved, Noah could tell they were speaking, but with the headphones pressing tightly over his ears, all sound was muffled and incomprehensible. Not that it really mattered, Noah was sure that even if he could hear, he wouldn’t have been paying much attention.

What was this? The question bounced around his mind, echoing like a rock tossed in a cavern, breaking the muted silence. Nothing much had happened for the last few weeks—the usual torture and interrogation, the pain, the starvation, all stuff Noah was growing increasingly accustomed to. Lashes of the whip didn’t exactly seemed to hit the same—no pun intended—when they fell upon layers of scar tissue and gashed skin. But this morning, two guards had entered their cell in the usual intrusive manner, grabbed their arm and dragged them out into the compound, up the stairs and then up another flight, and eventually into the conference room where they now were.

Their arms were tethered to either side of them, wrists wrapped tightly in bare chains that pinned their limbs directly against the metal bars. They kept having to flex their fingers, the remaining ones, to keep the circulation from cutting off completely. Another chain looped around their neck, though it was looser in comparison the metal still pressed awkwardly against his throat, the links leaving little red marks where they rubbed against the bruise littered flesh. His shirt was gone, an exposure he had grown rather used to in the past months, back forced flush against the radiator. It was warm, uncomfortable, but not yet burning. His back, damaged with scars and gashes alike, scabs that split open with as little as a wrong twitch, ached not only from the position of being forced to sit stretched upright but where the bars individually dug.

Whatever, though. It wasn’t the worst thing Whumper had done to him.

The quiet was almost nice. Almost. No one was looking at him, no one mocking his suffering. Only a soft muted hum managed to slip past the headphones, little wisps of the conversation he wasn’t a part of. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine those wisps becoming the lapping waves of a quiet stream, the trickle of water through a creek. The bars against their back would be the bark, the only pressure against their wrists the cuffs of their sleeves, bunched up slightly so they wouldn’t get wet when they dipped their hand into the quiet waters.

He didn’t close his eyes though. A world of peace, resting just beyond the darkness, but he couldn’t close his eyes. Whumper’s attention wasn’t on him right now, which was a relief of its own, but that could change in a moment. Would change in a moment. It wasn’t a possibility, it was a probability. Bound to occur at one minute or the next, the only variable in the equation was the when.

Noah was good at keeping his mouth shut, but his eyes open. His eyes open, gaze distant to the scene around him, every thought flitting back to the river in his mind. The lapping water free running over the riverbed, the soft breeze cooling the metal slowly heating under his back.

Then Whumper looked back, glancing over their shoulder as they turned in the chair. Their mouth twitched up into a smirk, lips moving with words unheard. They waved a hand across the table behind them, speaking to those sitting around for a moment before pushing up from their seat, and stepping over to Noah’s right. With the way the chain snared his neck, only allowing him a little leverage as he tried to follow Whumper. They stopped at the wall, hand raising to fiddle with some little box built into the wall—Noah was sure he could guess what it was. He forced his gaze back ahead, not giving Whumper the satisfaction of eye contact as they stepped back in front of him.

Noah hoped they would just return to their seat, continue whatever stupid meeting this seemed to be, but luck was clearly not on his side today, as instead Whumper stopped right in front of him, their foot stepping against the short chain that bound Noah’s ankles, pinning his legs. So he wouldn’t kick? Even Whumper knew, he wasn’t that stupid. That would practically be asking Whumper to break their shins, to nail their ankles to the floor with long stakes, take a hammer to his knees, whatever. No, Noah wasn’t that stupid.

Apparently Whumper didn’t seem to agree with him, but that didn’t matter.

Whumper was speaking now, but only a low mumble of sound made it past the headphones. Noah was almost glad, to be honest. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to listen to whatever bullshit Whumper was going to go on about now. Noah’s gaze fell to rest on a point in the distance, just above Whumper’s head. He didn’t want to look at them right now. Not even as Whumper’s hands moved up to their tie, undoing the silk knot before sliding it off their neck. Before Noah could think enough to question, Whumper’s hand shot forwards and grabbed him by the jaw, a small gasp giving them the chance to pry their thumb between Noah’s teeth, and force his mouth open enough to then shove the fabric between his lips.

The chain dug against his neck, skin pinching between the links as Whumper wrenched his head down, nearly choking him as they tied the strip of fabric into a tight knot against the base of his skull.

Whumper pulled back a moment later, their hands retreating and allowing Noah to raise his head. The fabric rested awkwardly between his molars, pressing down his tongue, the foreign object nearly making him gag. Whumper just smirked, raising a single finger to their lips, an undeniable “shhhh” pairing the moment even though Noah couldn’t hear it, and Whumper turned around, taking their seat once more.

And just like that, Noah had been reduced to a shadow, just as much a decoration as the dingy succulent at the table. The cloth didn’t muffle his groans much as the metal behind him heated up, up, up until he could swear it was red hot, searing his flesh with just a graze. If the commotion was a problem, no one at the table acknowledged it as he squirmed and leaned forwards, trying to get a bit of distance between himself and the metal grate, but the chains did not allow such leverage.

He was nothing, sitting there indifferent from the empty air, left to suffer in silence in a room full of people.

——————————

Tag list: @pickleking8 @blood-enthusiast @t0rture-me @sparrowsage @enigmawritesstuff

At one point I’ll update these links :p

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octopus-reactivated · 2 years

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Werner - meeting Marven again

It's short, because I had limited time, but wanted to do something. Hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Tw/cw: Pet whump, kidnapping, gaslightning, shock collar, captivity. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Werner hugged his knees.

His situation was dramatic and to his surprise he found himself mourning not that his whole life changed but rather that he lost the little things.

He missed his family. He wanted to become self-sufficient and he spent the whole semester studying at university, and when he had a break and was going to have nice holidays in his hometown… Mom said she had a surprise for him when he got home. He never got to learn what that surprise was.

If he got kidnapped three weeks later he would already be finished with exams. Now he’s going to miss it and will have to re-take classes. So inconvenient.

He won’t get to go on the frozen lake this winter.

He didn’t have his favorite notebook with him.

He won’t get to sleep in his old bed.

He even missed his annoying roommate, even though their worldviews were so different, he was better than this.

It was ironic, because Marven was working as a Pet Trainer, and they had multiple arguments about that as Werner was strongly against…

Werner felt like his heart felt from chest to stomach and all the heat in his body turned into the cold.

There were rumors that many of the Pets didn’t go into the system voluntarily.

Werner was openly against the whole idea.

His roommate was directly working for Pet training facility.

And now Werner sat with a shock collar on his neck.

After connecting the dots it was so obvious, that he wondered how he didn’t realize it right away.

He felt anger white-hot as white was this damned cage he was locked in overtaking him.

He had whole life ahead of him, and it was taken away because of what? Because he was a danger to the company? Because he dared to speak up?

On the other hand, did that mean his actions would change something? That it wasn’t in vain?

For a moment, Werner regretted being so brave about it, but he shrugged this feeling off. There was no reason to feel ashamed for standing up for his principles.

He stood up, paced around the room for a while and sat down again.

How long will he be like that?

What will they want from him?

The only time he interacted with workers there, he was expected to recite ‘rules’.

He wasn’t told them, not by trainers, but he heard about some in his life before.

Fortunately, memorisation was his strong side, so he managed to put together a list of rules. Probably not all of them and not in ‘correct order’, but better than nothing.

He came there not earlier than a day ago, but he was treated like he was there for a long time.

That meant, he won’t be shown mercy because he’s “still learning”, but after bit of thought, Werner decided not to go along with them for now. After all, they knew he wasn’t really there for long, they just pretended they didn’t.

And getting too obedient too quickly could be suspicious.

And he deserves to get angry just once, before he starts fearing them too much.

__________

Yet, he didn’t expect how angry he would get when he saw Marven's face.

“You!” He lunged forward and almost managed to throw a punch, before electrical shock threw him on the ground.

“I always assumed you were the smart one," said Marven in a calm voice. Like he didn’t just torture his roommate.

“Now I had heard you forgot your place,”he continued, while Werner tried to collect himself “You refused to recite your rules. You didn’t show proper respect to your Trainers. And now… this”

“It was your doing, wasn’t it?” Werner asked through grinned teeth

“Talking without permission.”

“Answer me!” Werner shouted “It was you who made me like that, right?”

Marven stayed silent for a while and then crouched next to him

“No. “ He said calmly “For me, you always were just a Pet. I’m only about to make you aware of that”

__________

Taglist: @heathenwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @kim-poce @whumpering-heights @icyheart-and-friends

#whump #pet whump #miserable life of werner #happy birthday!#sorry for making you miserable #captivity whump #my writing

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lumpofwhump · 2 years

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For your alignment chart ask game, Lenavee, Radu, and Barclay?

-verkja

Thanks for the asks (these and the yet-unanswered ones lol…)

Lenavee is Neutral Good, tending toward the Chaotic end of the order spectrum and down toward the Neutral part of the morality spectrum.

She was a petty thief and small-time scammer (if only under duress) for most of her childhood, and will lie, steal and manipulate to protect herself and her loved ones. Even her overly deferential way of speaking to and about people with more power than her is as much part of a submissive act as it is something her captors ground into her for years… and is sometimes incredibly backhanded. The traditions and institutions she respects are those of her culture, and not even as a form of defiance against the occupying forces (as it has become for many Hiukree rebels).

Morality-wise, she’s at a base level benevolent, and is a lot of people’s Mom Friend. She’ll throw herself under the bus for someone she loves knowing that they won’t ever know or recognize what she did. BUT. Put her and hers in danger or anything close, and you might find yourself drinking poisoned coffee or locked inside a washing machine.

Radu is solidly Lawful Good, though not the most extremely so of either quality.

As a heavily-conditioned whumpee (especially post-wipe), he’ll generally do what either his whumpers or his caretaker(s) tell him to the best of his ability, even if it hurts him. There’s quite a bit of fear there, of both punishment and abandonment, but there’s also genuine respect for anyone who protects him… or at least tells him they’re doing so. A significant exception to this is his protecting another, younger whumpee against his whumper… which led to him being wiped.

He’s almost a total cinnamon roll, of the variety that wouldn’t even hurt someone in self-defense. But. His loyalty to people he cares about can push him to do intentional harm. The example of this that’s come up so far is purposely mistranslating someone’s statements about one of his former whumpers’ good actions to say that said whumper had done the speaker harm. Granted, Radu did this to make sure that the person in question couldn’t do any more harm, and he didn’t know that the guy would get tortured because of what he said, but he could’ve guessed that it would’ve ended badly for the person he was framing.

Barclay is True Neutral. He drifts all over the place depending on his circumstances, but he never fully and permanently shifts alignment.

Anyone with power who gives him the time of day has his utmost respect, and he’ll do (or not do) a lot to prove himself and stay in their good graces. Throughout his early adulthood, he’d be the type to say he’s just following orders. At the same time, he does have lines he won’t cross, and will engage in minor, hidden forms of disobedience to avoid doing so. Meanwhile, he’s got huge impulse control problems. This leads him to disrespect authority figures or systems that have wronged or misjudged him, under the logic that if he can’t win, he might as well do whatever he wants and give the haters the finger while he’s at it.

As this suggests, Barclay tends to be as good or bad as the people around him and/or their expectations of him. When he’s working in the labs, both Director Richardson’s expectations that he be ruthless with subjects and the disdain of more ethical staff and subjects lead him to become the worst version of himself - cutthroat, bullying, and explosive in temper. When he’s eventually rescued/released from ten years of captivity and torture, though, his rescuers’ belief that he inherently belongs as a worthy member of his found family makes him act his best to deserve that respect… though still with the occasional reactive outburst.

#asks #Lenavee Yuim #Radu #Barclay Fletcher #character alignments

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