#it’s very clear I love controlling and distant Whumpers

[letitbehurt]

What phrases give you immediate whumperflies?

This is such a difficult question because most of the things that give me Whumperflies are actions, thoughts, or moments. But here are a few phrases that get me every time:

From Whumper:

“You’ll regret that.”

“Shut them up.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I asked you a question.” / “Answer me.”

“Make them look at me.”

“You should thank me for this.”

“Let’s try this again.”

“I’m not going to kill you, but you’re going to wish I would have.”

“Kneel.”

From Whumpee:

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Anything else. Please. Just not that.“

“Please, don’t take it.”

“Don’t hurt them.”

“But I did what you wanted, please, I did—“

“What are they going to do to me?”

“Please, not again.”

“Fuck you.”

“No.”

From Caretaker:

“Touch them again and I’ll kill you.”

“Do you trust me?”

“You’re safe.”

“You need to eat/drink something.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay—it’s just a nightmare. It’s not real.”

“I can stay, if you want.”

“Is this okay?”

“Let me help you.”

[no-whump-on-main]

Cry

this is TOTALLY self indulgent bc I love creepy comf so much and I am NOT sorry

TWS: Very affectionate, creepy, possessive whumper, thoughts of death, mentions of whipping

     Elora lay motionless on the floor save for her chest’s rapid rise and fall with her shallow breaths, deep red blood soaking into the old, graying carpet around her. Angry whip marks she’d lost count of after thirty-eight littered her exposed back, the pain so sharp and severe she could feel nothing else in its brutal haze.

     The man sat calmly in front of her, gazing at her idly, comfortably. His nonchalantless was unsettling, sinking a deep pit into Elora’s core. Was he just going to sit there until she bled out? The thought was distant, clouded by the fog of pain, but the emotion that came with it was clear. Fear. No, terror. She didn’t want to die here. She was miserable, yes, but god, she didn’t want to die yet.

     She wanted to live first. Outside of here. Free. She had to be free before she could lay down and die. And it was terrifying to think about that not happening.

     The man had been watching her silently for a few minutes before he spoke.

     “Come here.”

     Elora didn’t need anything else, any other cue.

     She pushed herself up to her elbows, then her knees, her back screaming in pain and protest. Once she was kneeling, she let out a strangled sob and crumbled forward into the man’s waiting arms. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, but it hurts, it feels like-

     Her frail body heaved with each breath as she struggled to control her piercing sobs. Any time she tried-and she was trying, she hadn’t been given permission to scream or cry-she failed miserably, something always stopping her. A fresh wave of overwhelming nausea at the coppery scent in the living room, a gust of freezing air from the old unit in the window making her shiver, a fleeting memory of home; whatever it was, there was always something pushing her pained tears to continue.

     She looked pitiful, really. All curled up, leaned against the one who’d hurt her so badly, so badly she thought she was going to die, arms dangled around his neck, hair stained and matted with blood, and clothes soaked through with the red liquid clinging to her skin, showing just how malnourished she’d become during her months locked away.

     Yet she didn’t care. Her cries of raw pain kept coming, unstoppable by anything, not by her own psyche, or by threats of further agony. Through her wailing, she felt the man staring at her back, entirely exposed except for the straps of a black sports bra, knowing he was probably admiring his twisted work.

     His arms finally closed around her, avoiding the lashes, careful not to hurt her any more. That was done for the day. He needed to be kind, now. Gain her trust then break it down again and again, only to build it back up. Elora gasped, then whimpered and whined as he drew her into his lap, a hand guiding her head to his chest, pressing it firmly in. She was shaking like a leaf, her tears soaking into his shirt quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.

     “It’s alright, lark. You can cry, honey. You can cry.”

     The words came to Elora almost fuzzily, like they were being played to her on a scratched record. She didn’t register much of anything other than you can cry, which she responded to immediately. With the restricting fear of breaking a rule gone, she stopped trying to control herself. She wept openly, practically keening, voice much louder than the man had ever heard it in tears before, proportional to how much she hurt. 

     All she felt was pain. Her body had never once let her slip into oblivion while she was whipped mercilessly by the man for her mistakes. Before the onslaught had started, she’d seen that the whip was made of leather, cold and almost unwieldy with how long it was, and by the end, it was sopping with her blood. She’d felt every lash of the tool, cried out each time a new strike came down and left a bloody welt behind. She didn’t know if it was because of a drug, or if her body had just been cruel enough to force her to remain aware through everything, but frankly, she didn’t care. It was all pain and hurt either way. The origins didn’t matter.

     She was dimly aware as the man started to rock back and forward gently, so slow at first she hardly noticed the soothing motion. Next came his hand running softly through her hair, so much more gentle than usual, not tugging on any knots, being careful, comforting instead of hurting. She quieted, but only marginally, and her tears kept seeping further into the man’s shirt.

    “You’re alright, sweetheart. We’re done for a while, now. You’ve been punished enough, don’t you think?”

     She nodded weakly against him, quivering. Too much. Hurt too much. But...it didn’t feel quite so much like death anymore. The terror of dying here, accompanied only by the man, as good as alone, was gone, replaced with a desperate plea for comfort, whatever form that took. Sleep. A tender touch. The presence of another.

     Whoever that presence was. No matter what that presence had done. She didn’t care. She felt helpless, torn apart, broken. It wasn’t just the seemingly endless whipping; that was only the nail in the coffin of months of pain, months of being slowly chipped away at, cracked open to her core.

     She was ready to give in now. She needed what comfort she could get.

     “I think so too. No more for now.” A particularly loud sob interrupted him, and he softened. “Shhh. It’s alright now. You did good. You were good.”

     Elora tensed. “Good?” She muttered softly, voice muffled from how closely she was pressed into his chest. Good. She’d heard him say that word often, but seldom about her. It was always what she was meant to be, not what she was. 

     He nodded, briefly stopping his rocking to gently raise her head up from his chest, cupping her cheeks with his hands. He looked intently into her eyes. The green hue of her irises was contrasted by how red the whites of her eyes were from crying, making her eyes look so bright they were practically glowing, very different from how dull they’d become recently.

     “Yes, good. You did so good taking that. So good for me. You want to be good, don’t you?”

     Elora nodded and blinked tears out of her eyes. She did. She wanted to be good so she wouldn’t hurt so badly.

     She saw the man smile. “I know you do. You’re trying so hard. I know. This doesn’t have to happen again, if you can just remember to be good.”

     Elora accepted the lie fully as she was slowly led back down, back into his chest, settled into his lap, where it was warm and safe for now. She found that she didn’t want to leave, ever. She wanted to be good and sit right there and be held and rocked softly.

     “Do you want to sleep in the bed tonight?” The man asked her, voice kind and melodic, almost a coo. 

     Elora mumbled a mmf into his shirt, too exhausted to even nod now. She closed her eyes as the man gathered her closer into his arms, standing slowly so as to disturb her as little as possible. The audible aspect of her sobbing had stopped by now, only the tears left.

     “Let’s clean you up first, hmm? All that blood won’t feel nice sticking to the sheets.”

     Elora whimpered and shook her head slightly, ignoring her weariness, fingers grasping at the man’s shirt a little tighter, almost insistently. No, that hurts her, it always hurts, it’ll hurt more. She tensed unconsciously, and the man rubbed her shoulder sympathetically. His hand felt warm, grounding her back to reality before her fear could take her elsewhere again.

     “Hey, it’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll use peroxide, not alcohol, and just some water. No more hurting for tonight, okay? I told you, no more. You can go to sleep after this, and in the morning it’ll be better.”

     Elora nodded tearfully, already bracing herself for the pain she expected despite the man’s words. It always hurts, he’s just trying to get her to stop crying so much, she’s ruining his shirt, causing him trouble,  going out of his way for her when he didn’t have to.

     The man didn’t take her to the small bathroom in the apartment’s only hallway that she was infinitely familiar with by now, but rather, his own. He brought her through his room and into the en suite, flicking on the lights before slowly setting her down the side of the tub. She wobbled despite her feet planting on the floor, and the man placed one hand on her shoulder, tenderly keeping her upright.

     He rifled through the cabinets in the oak vanity like that, one hand on Elora’s shoulder, providing affirmation and stability while the other pulled an old bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a soft washcloth out of the mess underneath the sink. He closed the cabinet and sat down beside Elora on the ledge of the tub, carefully pouring out some of the peroxide onto the washcloth before dabbing it almost feather-lightly at the lashes across her back. Elora had screwed her eyes tightly shut in anticipation of pain, but was pleasantly surprised when it never came, only a slight chill from the room temperature of the peroxide, feeling cold in contrast to how warm she’d been while huddled against the man.

     The man set the washcloth aside after a few minutes of light dabbing. Elora kept her eyes closed, trying not to focus on the dull stinging that still hadn’t gone away. It was all too tempting to fade out right there, but she forced herself to remain conscious, knowing the man wasn’t done yet. He didn’t want her asleep yet, and she had to do what he wanted to be good. She’d nearly fallen asleep where she sat despite her efforts when the man detached the shower head from the holder at the top of the wall, turning on a gentle spray of lukewarm water that rinsed her back. She opened her tired eyes at the sensation, noticing blood tinge the water red as it flowed off of her and down the drain. 

     She seemed comfortable, relaxed, even; the water was warm, it didn’t hurt, and the same set of words were repeating in her head over and over. You’re alright. No more for now. You did good. She was almost upset when the warm water went away and the shower head went back up on the wall, though she didn’t express it. She waited calmly for what the man would do next, eyelids drooped in weariness. She didn’t know what he would do, but she wasn’t worried. She was alright. No more for now. It was okay. She was in a state of almost unawareness, her senses so overloaded with everything she’d gone through recently, they simply shut down. 

     The man tipped her chin up with two fleeting fingers, just to make sure she was still in there. Her eyes darted up to him, and despite his surprise at her sudden alertness, he gazed at her warmly.

     She was in there. Just tired, that’s all.

     “I’ll be right back,” he told her. “Let your back air dry. A towel will only scratch at it.”

     Elora nodded woozily, the alertness already fading away.

      She gazed down at the floor while she waited for his return, eyes glassy and glazed over. Rest. She just wanted rest.

     The man came back with a ball of white fabric that smelled like a familiar cheap cologne. Elora only realized it was his shirt once he had already rolled it up and gently placed it over her neck. She helped him ease her arms through the sleeves, dimly thinking about how quickly time seemed to be moving now, how hard it was to keep up with. The man picked her up in a bridal carry again, turning off the bathroom light as he took her back over to his bed, interrupting her thoughts.

     He set her down, easing her onto the mattress with all the care a collector would give to a fragile piece of porcelain. He propped a pillow under her head and pulled the comforter over her, sitting down on the end of the bed only once he was sure she was settled. Elora never moved from the position he left her in, her body protesting any time she felt like adjusting.

     The two sat in silence until the air felt stale. Despite her exhaustion, Elora couldn’t quite fall asleep. Something felt off, and she just couldn’t sleep despite how comfortable she was in the bed. The man finally broke the silence long after it had become uncomfortable.

     “You want me to leave, don’t you?” His voice was calm and soft, not at all accusatory, simply putting words out into the air.

     Elora froze immediately, fear showing on her brow. The man didn’t sound angry, but his words did. He knew, he always knew, he probably wanted her to be good and just sleep by him, and she wasn’t. She started to babble a hasty, incoherent explanation before the man cut her off.

     “It’s alright, you can’t make me angry. Not right now.”

     Elora sniffled, forcibly pulling herself together as much as she could. She did. She needed time alone now to cope as much as she’d needed human contact earlier. “I-I want to be a-alone. I-I can remember to be good on my own. P-promise,” she said, voice no louder than a whisper. 

     The man nodded sympathetically and stood, his expression soft. “That’s okay. Sleep well. I’ll be close, just in the other room. Good night,” he bade.

     “G-good night. I-I’ll be good,” Elora promised, mumbling.

     “I know you will,” the man replied, leaving the room and shutting the door softly behind him to go jot something in a notebook he stored locked in a desk drawer in the living room.

    February 24th. The day she broke.