#mentions of cutting into whumpee

[seth-whumps]

god I love caretaker-turned-whumpee so much. "I'm going to scream. don't stop." coaching someone through stitches. explaining the procedure step-by-step, knowing the motions by heart and knowing your life has to be in someone else's hands. "take a deep breath. steady. you can do this." pushing aside the agony in favor of keeping your inexperienced caretaker calm, clinical precision even in pain, "hold me down," the trust and vulnerability in letting someone heal you when you spend your life healing others. ugh. it's so good.

[letitbehurt]

Thinking about Whumper drinking blood out of a crystal glass, still warm from the source, their lips and teeth stained a garish red as they smile down at their bleeding Whumpee.

[highwaywhump]

Surgery, part 2

This is a series! Masterlist is here and the first part of the surgery arc is here

so i lied, i rewrote the second part and the whole thing is now closer to 4.5k. enjoy

TW/CW: former pet whumpee/extremely conditioned and dehumanized whumpee having a panic attack, being forcibly 'restrained' (by caretaker!) during said attack, and forcibly drugged with a needle/syringe. brief scar mention, blood mention, very brief description of a cut. discussion of professional misconduct i guess.

--

Aaron stops dead in his tracks in the doorway. At first, he can’t even see Joey - all he sees is Becca, the red-haired nurse who had helped them get Joey’s x-rays, handpicked by Dr. Perez. She’s clutching her arm, blood trickling out between her fingers. Next to her are two more nurses, both tall, broad men, unknown to Aaron. He can’t see Joey at first, all he can see are the three people, two too many, the red blood staining Becca’s scrubs, and a puddle of water and broken glass on the floor. 

And all he can hear is Joey’s desperate sobs and Becca’s voice, trying to communicate something to the two other nurses, who are focused on something behind the bed. 

Aaron doesn’t think, he just acts. In three steps he’s in front of the two nurses, blocking their path, and finally, there’s Joey. He’s all curled up and has tucked himself into the corner formed by the bed and the wall, his skinny arms wrapped around his head, his whole form shaking as he incoherently begs and pleads. Something about being good and behaving and please don’t drug him. 

“We’ve got it,” one of the male nurses says and attempts to move past Aaron, but he holds up a hand, blocking them. “No,” he says with determination, knowing that a pair of huge and institutionally dressed men is the least thing Joey needs right now. 

“No, I’ll take care of him. Help your colleague in the meantime,” he says, if only to stop the two of them closing in like predators. They’ve stances like rugby players, slightly bent at the knees and with their arms out to the side, ready to pounce. Even Aaron, who is perfectly healthy and capable of rational cognition right now, is a little intimidated by them. 

“He should be sedated,” one of them says. “We need to administer pre-op medications,” the other chimes in, pointing to an IV bag laying on the bed, and the pieces fall into place in Aaron’s head. The broken glass of water, Becca who was supposed to be the one administering the medications but who now was bleeding from what looks like a gash in her arm, one of the male nurses who’d dashed past him in the hallway. 

He could see it all playing out. Becca coming in with the IV bag, maybe saying something about medication, reaching for Joey’s arm with the needle in her hand. Joey, still holding his glass of water, already worked up and on edge, losing it at the sight of the needle. Defending himself, in his own hazy, red rimmed eyes. 

And now, having worked himself up, not thinking rationally. Not thinking at all. Panicking because he had defied orders, or hurt someone, or broken a glass. It wasn’t good to say.

“I’ll-” Aaron pauses and breathes out, taking a step backwards from the nurses, towards Joey. “I’ll calm him down, okay? He needs someone he knows. Not…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, only moves his gaze between the two men. 

They seem reluctant. They probably have a responsibility here, handling patients who act out. Only, Joey isn’t acting out. He is just scared, and a pet, and Aaron isn’t sure how much the men know about the situation. Or what they’re even thinking, taking all of Joey’s scars into consideration. It’s as if they’re peaking out everywhere now that he only wears the patient gown. 

“He really needs sedation, for his own safety,” one nurse states. Aaron discerns the unspoken for our safety in his voice. 

For a moment, he considers arguing. He doesn’t want to force anything on Joey that isn’t strictly necessary. Aaron is his advocate and breaching his trust like that while he’s in this state, forcing him to take a needle he clearly doesn’t want, would be traitorous. 

Then again… he weighs the other outcome. Whatever these two nurses think is going on, he can’t let it extend past the patient is unwilling to comply, into the patient isn’t supposed to be here, patient is a pet, patient needs police pick-up. As well as the fact that he could never make Joey come back here after today, even if he managed to reschedule the surgery. It would be like taking a victim back to a crime scene, making them relive the trauma all over again. 

Maybe sedation is for the best. 

“Let me hold him, at least,” Aaron tries. “He can’t handle… this, right now. Give us a minute. I’ll help you.”

They hesitate, but back off, one of them turning to help Becca while the other stands by, looking warily at Joey. Still, he keeps his distance. Aaron exhales and turns around, crouching down in front of Joey. In front of his ward, his responsibility. Christ, everything here is his responsibility. Becca’s injury, too. Does this clinic have a pediatric program or some other heartwrenching project? He’ll donate. 

“Joey?” he ventures, not sure if he can even hear him over his own cries. Okay. Deep breath. 

“Joey, it’s me. Hey, little one.” He goes from crouch to kneel when his knees start protesting, moving as close to the boy as he can. Gently, he reaches out and touches Joey’s shoulder. He flinches violently and his sobs intensify. “Please don’t, please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be still, please,” he whimpers, over and over again. Aaron hopes the nurses can’t make out the words.

He’s all curled up, tucked into himself as best as he can, trying to disappear. All the while, he’s sobbing and begging desperately, completely gone in his own head. Aaron realizes he can’t talk him down from this quickly enough tonight. They’re on a schedule, and the nurses are growing uneasy. 

He’ll just have to take the plunge. 

“It’s okay,” he mutters as he leans forward and envelops Joey’s bony frame and hugs him close, as tightly as he thinks he can handle. He is petrified, his whole body tight and stiff, and he lets out a scared and confused wail as he’s pulled into the tight embrace.  

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Aaron continues, both to himself and to Joey, as he finds the back of his head and tucks into the crook of his own neck, hoping to provide some semblance of warmth and safety for what he has to do next. 

With his other hand he finds Joey’s, squeezing his fingers to see if he gets a response, if they might be able to communicate nonverbally like that. A squeeze means I’m here, I’m listening, trust me. When Joey is too shaken up to speak to him, he’s usually able to at least squeeze back. 

Not now, though. Joey’s fingers are curled up into a hard little fist. Aaron sighs and hugs him tighter, mumbling apologies into his hair as he clasps his wrist and pulls it away from them, extending it towards the nurses. He watches through the corner of his eye as one of them removes a sterile cannula from its packet and takes hold of Joey’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Aaron mumbles as Joey whines when he feels the foreign touch. His face is still hidden in his sweater. He pushes even closer and Aaron can feel him trying to pull his hand back, out of his and the nurse’s grip. It catches him off guard - Joey has never, ever opposed anything Aaron has ever said or done. This is completely novel.

“Please don’t do it,” he sniffles into Aaron’s sweater. “Please don’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to, please,” he repeats, over and over, and it breaks Aaron’s heart, forcibly holding his hand away from his body like this, holding him still. 

A part of him lights up with the thought that he still has some semblance of volition. Everything wasn’t beaten out of him. At the same time, right now, Aaron has to disregard it. He has to hold him still and force him to endure it as the nurse feels around for a vein. “Small pinch, now,” he says, as he pushes the cannula through his skin. 

This is all Aaron’s fault. If he hadn’t left the room, if he had been there when Becca came in, they could’ve worked it out together, undramatically. This whole episode could’ve been avoided. Surely, all traces of trust between them must be gone by now. 

Joey moans, in pain or desperation or maybe both, as the nurse attaches the tubing and picks up the saline bag, hanging it on its stand. He collapses in Aaron’s arms. Still, Aaron doesn’t let go, keeping him close. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he repeats, over and over again, hoping some of it reaches past the walls built up inside Joey’s mind. The nurse picks up a syringe and pushes its contents into the injection port of the IV tube. Then, he, Becca, and the other nurse leave the room. 

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity. Joey calms down after a while, now leaning heavily into Aaron. His shoulders flinch from time to time, but he’s stopped crying quite as audibly as he did. 

Aaron guesses this is the result of the sedation. It was normal, right? Giving a weak sedative before a surgery, just to calm any nerves? Had Becca brought in the sedatives as well as the IV bag or had the male nurses brought it when they heard the commotion? He wonders how much the two of them know. None of them were supposed to be here, he thinks. What did they think had happened? Who did they think Joey was? 

He glances to the side, where he still holds Joey’s wrist. Gently, he angles it - and there it is, the ugly barcode tattoo. His blood runs cold. He didn’t think that far when he took Joey’s wrist to hold it out for the nurses. Did they see it? If they did, had they cleaned up Becca’s sliced up arm and then gone to call the police after? 

He’s left no time to ponder or worry any longer as the door opens and Dr. Perez enters. She seems unfazed by the sight that meets her - blood and crushed glass that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, and the two of them sitting in a corner. Somebody must’ve informed her.  

“Are you okay?” She rounds the bed and crouches down in front of them. “Becca told me what happened.

“I think so,” Aaron answers, gently shifting Joey to get a look of his face. He’s drowsy and heavy in his arms, his eyes puffy and red rimmed as he blinks them open and tries to focus. Aaron smiles at him. “Hey, you,” he mutters softly, pushing his hair away from his face. 

“I hope he’s still up for the surgery,” Dr. Perez says, eyeing the IV bag to see how much of the liquid inside has been reduced. “What happened was… I won’t say normal, but it’s not unusual. We never know how they might react to what we do to them.”

Aaron nods. “Is Becca okay?” 

“She is. It looked worse than it was.” She looks over her shoulder, where the glass and blood still hasn’t been cleaned up. “Don’t worry. She knows that what she does for a living isn’t risk-free. And she knows that we don’t know what kind of trauma our patients carry with them. It’s nobody’s fault. Least of all his.” 

“I have to ask… do the other nurses know? The other two who were here.” 

She looks down. “They know about my situation, what I do. They don’t know about him, per say. They’ll probably make the connection, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Aaron’s eyebrows knit together, still not convinced. “How can you be sure?” 

She exhales in a puff, a slight chuckle, even. “Everyone in this industry knows somebody who knows somebody who does this sort of thing.” Illegal surgeries. The words are unspoken, but still clear as day. “I am far from the only one, believe me. If they didn’t like it, they would have quit and reported me a long time ago. And then they’d start working at the next hospital and have to do the same thing. There’s always someone.” She gives him a minute, knowing smile. “This country would run out of healthcare workers if they revoked every license from one who has treated a pet or ex-pet.”

Aaron doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s relieved “So… we’re good?” he asks eventually, for lack of better words. 

Dr. Perez nods. “We’re good. Now, let’s get going before the anaesthesiologist gets tired of waiting.” 

She helps him support Joey up to his feet and then to sit down on the bed. He’s swaying, gripping at the bedsheets to keep his balance, so Aaron gently guides him to lay down instead. He’s completely still, only breathing. His eyes are large and round as he finds Aaron hand, holding onto it with startling solidity. 

“Was… was I bad?” he whispers shakily. 

“No,” Aaron says immediately, not leaving it up for discussion. He doesn’t know what Joey knows, what he remembers of what had happened. Still, he won’t let Joey go around with doubts in his mind. 

His other hand finds Joey’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. He leans into it, still keeping that intense eye contact. “No, sweetheart,” Aaron says, softer. “You weren’t bad. You were just scared.” In his head he adds It was my fault, I’m sorry, thinking the statement might be too much for him to make sense of now, in his delirious, drugged state. 

Joey dips his head slightly in what might be a nod. Aaron tries to smile at him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get that leg fixed up.” 

-

tags <3

@simplygrimly @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @briars7 @hackles-up @doveotions @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kixngiggles @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpthisway @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumping-snail @pumpkin-spice-whump @pigeonwhumps

[whumpitisthen]

If you ever feel so fancy as to do a part 2 or similar drabble to instincts i will be available to tattoo it on the entire landscape of my back and/or worship it throughly 👀🙏🙏

i dont usually write second parts, but i do also like that one a lot, and you asked very politely......

first part

Lonely...

"Wh-Why do you do this?"

He's been sitting there for a solid ten minutes in complete silence, enduring the maddening, constant scrutiny glaring from his left side. The tea he has prepared is swiftly growing lukewarm, no longer steaming languidly on the coffee table. He hadn't dared to move an inch once it perched next to him, weighing heavily on his mind and on the sofa cushions as its presence grew and materialised so close, so dangerous.

He hoped it would leave him alone today. It hadn't visited for a few days, — not in a physical way, only as an ever unnerving pressure on his body that wouldn't go away. Yet, that hadn't stopped the nightmares worming their way into his brain each time he tried resting while it was around. He is tired, and weary, and weak. That is why he planned on a serene little movie night spent in front of the mind numbing screen, on his own; to hopefully distract him, or even put him in a mercifully dreamless sleep. He desperately wished it would leave him just a little longer.

However, it seems it knew just the worst time to 'come see him' — as it so likes to put it. More like break into his home, harass him, question him and then torture him, only to leave him in a state barely sufficient to let him patch himself up for next time. Or stay and do it itself, making the healing stage into another opportunity to learn about humans as it messily fixes him up like one would a machine.

'Why? Why do you feel the need to do these things to me?'

He can feel it blink at him, can see its head tilt to the side, and can almost hear the phrase come before it murmurs, — "I do not understand."

Of course it doesn’t, this is perfectly normal for it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Nevermind,” — he tries, already knowing that it’s too late.

As expected, it growls impatiently, yet somehow, he can’t find it in himself to do more than squeeze his eyes shut and sigh, instead of flinching and curling into himself.

“I do not like when you don’t answer me. What do I do that awakens your curiosity?”

That’s one way to put it. Curiosity.

“You just, just stare at me all the time. I know you do, eve-, even when you’re not, when I can’t see you.”

“I am here to learn from you. That’s all I ever want,” — it replies matter-of-factly.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” — he murmurs, voice full of a hopelessness that only a severe lack of sleep and a terrifyingly inescapable situation can bring.

“I do not. There is nothing better for me to do. I enjoy this the most,” — it exclaims happily, unaware of the offending tone he used. Sometimes, it’s fortunate that it doesn’t get how parts of the human speech works, such as sarcasm, or expressions.

He doesn’t say anything, and that confuses it. He simply stares at the moving pictures on the television blankly. It feels his nerves lit on fire, yet it's a much fainter feeling, and his reactions are wholly uninteresting. In turn, that almost makes them more interesting to the creature. It wants to know what’s wrong with the human today.

“You are boring. Why are you boring,” — it asks, though the sentence ends in more of a period than a question mark. It’s quite funny, the way it asks things sometimes. He smiles to himself, knowing full well delirium must be hitting him hard for him to find the courage to smile in the presence of this monstrosity, fully capable of tearing him in half in a split second if he doesn’t supply it with entertainment and learning opportunities. It would find joy in it as well.

“Why am I boring?” — he asks, holding back a giggle. He still doesn’t look at it. He would quickly lose his humour if he did.

“Yes.”

“What do you mean? Why am I boring?”

It falls quiet for a moment, glancing at the TV again.

“You do not care that I am here.”

He knows he should not, but his mind only finds the situation more hilarious with every word.

“What, are you, y-you getting lonely now? Should I grab a blanket and cuddle close, so you feel loved?” — he chortles.

It finds his tone unnatural. It doesn’t understand it, but it makes it feel wrong. Small. It feels small.

“Am I lonely? Explain, please.”

He only taught it pleasantries like please and thank you some number of weeks ago — it still feels entirely unnatural to hear it say the word he has said to it so many times before, to no avail. It says it like it couldn’t just pull an answer out of him with no issue. It has learned to be more patient, at least.

“Do you not know what loneliness is?”

“I asked you so. Why do you sound like that? You sound wrong,” — it remarks, certainly perplexed by his relatively calm demeanour. It is so used to watching him panicking and stuttering up a storm, flinching at every little movement, that hearing any amount of confidence or joy, and feeling any amount of serenity emanating off of him is throwing it off. It must feel very wrong to be looked at with anything more than wild fear to it.

“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, loneliness is like… It has to do with being alone, obviously.”

“It’s not very obvious to me,” — it grumbles.

“Yeah, I know, I know. I-It’s… kind of hard to explain, honestly. Um… It’s when you feel sad, when you are alone. Like when you’re on your own and there’s no-one to talk to. It’s depressing. So most people find someone else to, to help with that feeling, so they are no longer alone. That’s loneliness.”

“Hm…” — It thinks for a while. He can see it struggling with the concept, already trying to think of another way to explain before it asks. What it says next surprises him however, — “being alone doesn’t feel bad. I am always alone. You said when something feels bad it is because whatever is happening should not be happening. It’s not unnatural, therefore it isn’t bad.”

His smile disappears. Of course. Humans are social creatures, surviving by building relationships and helping each other out. It isn’t a human. He doesn’t know how it feels about being around another one of its kind. Is there another one of it? He doesn’t dare think about that.

“W-Well… It’s a human thing, I guess. We survived so long, and got to um, where we are by being there for each other, but I g-guess you don’t need that, do you?”

“I have noticed there are many humans near each other. It is rare to find one all alone. I assumed it was like how it is with ants or bees. Is that not right?” — it wonders.

“Not really. It’s more, um… familial? Like a pack of wolves or something. I don’t think bees take care of each other, only their queen and larvae.”

“I see. So what does it feel like? Being lonely?”

He bites back a yawn, swallowing it down. He reaches for the popcorn on the coffee table, deciding he might as well snack before it ultimately decides to hurt him at some point tonight. He hasn’t found the motivation to eat much all day.

What does loneliness feel like? How is he supposed to explain that to a thing that might not even have another one of its kind?

“Uhm… It’s a bad feeling. For us, at least. You feel like… You need to be around someone. Depending on how bad it is, you, uh, might even feel the need to be around strangers. It feels like you are going mad. Like, uhm… I don’t know, like crushing? Hopeless? This one’s… hard to explain,” — he finished, throwing some more popcorn into his mouth. He is watching the movie on the screen, but his brain is not picking up on anything that’s going on around him besides the creature next to him.

“Hm…”

It doesn’t say anything for a long time. So long, in fact, that he would almost forget about it entirely if it didn't shuffle closer to him, watching him intently for a reaction. Even through the thick haze of fog engulfing his brain, he tenses and shuffles away on instinct.

"You are not lonely," — it decides. It doesn't understand still what loneliness is; otherwise it would know that he is lonely enough to crave human interaction of absolutely any kind, enough that he sometimes dreams that the creature that follows him around wherever he goes isn't such a horrid being, that he managed to teach it how to be human and no longer hurt him and to care for him like another person would. He hallucinates, sometimes, because he's just that lonely. Or maybe it's just the sleep deprivation. Both.

"Why do you think that?" — he inquires, half-caring about the answer.

"Because I accompany you. You are never truly alone. You do not crave my touch. You are not lonely."

"And you are not a person. Why would I care about any of that?" — he snaps suddenly.

It goes silent again, and his very soul is trembling. He knows he messed up, he shouldn't have said that, even it isn't dense enough to miss a direct insult. The glare coming from the side is burning him, and he subconsciously apologises in his mind, almost certain it can hear it. He's so tired, he just wants to pass out already.

When it finally chirps up again, he fully expects a claw to tear at his face, — "I am not a human. But I am a person still." — He only now realises that it isn't looking at him anymore. It's an awfully unusual feeling, to feel its presence but not its gaze, — "is that not right? Can I not be a person if I am not a human?"

Now it's his turn to think. He never thought about it like that. When he says person, he immediately thinks of a human, but if that's how it is — does that mean that another intelligent alien race, for example, would not be considered people? A member of them wouldn't be a person? That doesn't sound right.

Why is he thinking about this like he's afraid to hurt this monster? Why did it sound like it was hurt by his words? It didn't, he just has empathy and assumed he had hurt it. Like a person. Or a human would, at least. Then again, there are shitty humans out there too.

"I'm… sorry," — he says, unsure how to answer in a way as to not dig himself into a deeper hole, — "I just never thought of anyone to be a person if they aren't, um, human. But you're not like, an a-animal or something, are you? So you are still a person. I think."

"What does being a person mean to humans? I thought being a person meant having higher intelligence than animals, but that doesn't seem to be true. You are not answering me straight," — it accuses him curiously. Its gaze is back on him, watching him again. Its voice is a little deeper, and he assumes it's because he has angered him. He wishes it would just get it over with and attack already.

"I-It-, I'm n-not sure! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, i-it was an honest mistake — I just never really thought about you that way…"

"If you do not see me as a person, then what do you see me as? Am I really an animal to you?" — it questions relentlessly, leering down at him with an intensity that feels like a physical weight is crushing his body into the sofa, curling into itself, — "you see me as a critter."

"No, no, no I don't! I-I just don't know what you are! You're not a human, nor an animal, but I have no idea what to f-, call you! Pl-ease, I swear I d-didn't mean it!" — he clambers to apologise, already gathering tears behind eyes squeezed shut, lifting his arms to shield his head from claws flying through the air. To his surprise — and relief — none comes.

“...Am I lonely?” — it asks itself, all animosity gone from its voice, — “I do not know. I have always been alone.”

When nothing else is said for long enough, he uncurls his arms from over him and finally summons the courage to look at the creature next to him. It is once again deep in thought, trying to figure out if it feels lonely or not. No matter how many times he is forced to gaze upon it, his skin crawls all the same. An inky blackness of eyes and claws, long thin limbs appearing and disappearing at its will. Sometimes it has long, dripping hair, other times horns or antlers. He can only guess it changes its form depending on its mood that day. It barely looks humanoid, some demon of hell — he had to learn how to sense its emotions through its rough cover of shadows himself through trial and error, and still he has trouble understanding it fully. He doesn’t get a chance, most times, as he is the one being questioned, or tormented. This time is different. Unusual.

He releases a shaky exhale and swallows, feeling his tired heart beat an almost painful rhythm against his chest. It’s dizzying, to be so stressed when his brain is barely functioning from lack of sleep. He finds it hard to sit, and leans to the side instead, catching himself on the arm of the couch. Though curious, even if he dared to say anything more to it, he is having trouble getting his thoughts in order long enough for his brain to sew together a sentence.

“If I was lonely, that would mean I would want to be around other people. Interact with them. I interact with you a lot. Maybe I am lonely.” — It goes quiet periodically, trying to decide for itself, but it doesn’t seem very successful at doing so. — “I don’t understand,” — it comes to say finally, turning to him again for more answers. It seems unbothered by his state.

“Uh-uhm… Mm… Maybe I said it wrong. I don’t think it’s um, only your own kind you want to be around. Wh-When you’re lonely, I mean. Sometimes, when I’m lonely, it helps to just hang out with some of the, uh, stray cats that w-wander up to my windows, sometimes. I, I um, like petting them. And their purring. They’re very nice to, to me…” — he mumbles, hoping that no more questions come, as he is having more and more trouble resisting the ever gentler pull of unconsciousness.

"You crave affection from animals?" — it coos at him, almost mocking, but not for long, suddenly growing silent again. It makes a groan, a sound akin to some kind of wild raccoon, and he has no idea what it means — yet, upon looking at it, it's clear it is growing restless. — "...Affection from less intelligent beings. Helps with loneliness. Am I lonely? Am I lonely?" — It repeats the question for the hundredth time, asking itself more so than him by now. It seems frustrated. The clawed ends of its slender fingers flex around a pillow. On one hand, he finds it humorous, the act reminding him of kitties making biscuits — on the other, he is so relieved those sharp things aren't digging into his abdomen yet.

"If you have to, t-to think about it this long, you probably are. You just, d-don't wanna ad-admit to it," — comes his wavering voice, supplying it with more confusion. It retaliates by placing one of its hands around his closest ankle, sending a harsh shiver all the way up to the nape of his neck. The way it closes those frigid digits around his leg wakes him right back up — a familiar feeling, to be woken up so ruthlessly by it. It tilts its head at him again, clearly bothered by his accusations.

"How could I admit to something I don't understand? That sounds moronic. You are stupid," — it growls triumphantly, reminding him of his sister. So quick to anger, and just as stubborn. Except he isn't quite as afraid of his little baby sister as he is of this cosmic horror gripping at him with its ice cold sharpened appendages. The horror that is probably trying to grin, and instead only succeeds at showing off all of its terrifying sets of teeth in a horrid snarl. He had not realised until this moment that it has a mouth on its torso, cleaving it in half as it opens. He has acquired a new fear.

His mind is overrun with images of the thing pulling him towards its horrifying torso-mouth by the ankle in its grasp, chewing him up bit by bit as it keeps pulling him deeper and deeper into its disgusting, black, tar body, mauling him completely. If he managed to survive the mutilation, the rest of him would be tossed into a vat of acid that is its stomach, digested agonisingly slowly. His wide, purple-black, terrified eyes are stuck on it, and it notices his staring, unfortunately, before he could.

"Wh-, y… yes, y-y-you're right. Maybe I am. Please stop touching me now."

He can't help noticing its eyes crinkle in amusement, thoroughly enjoying bullying him into submission as it always does, — "You were being very brave today, all the way up until now. What's wrong?" — Its grip tightens, those blades it has the gall to call 'nails' already making paper cuts all along his exposed skin. One finger — a thumb, if it has any — is caressing the length of flesh slowly, back and forth, distressing him greatly. Its eyes glow unnaturally, glinting in the dark, and it hurts, it physically hurts his body to be so scared right now. His heart beats much too fast all too sudden, his breaths come quicker than he feels capable of, his skin crawls with the cold sweat covering the entirety of his back pressed against the armrest of the sofa. It watches him tense in its clutches with utmost glee, considering pulling him a little closer by the little red lines it already caused, just to hear him whimper at the burning pain. — "Don't tell me you've lost all conviction already?"

He barely remembers to reply, utterly lost in those intense eyes and rows upon rows of teeth grinning at him, — "Ih-, it was just, a joke! I wasn't being serious — p-please let go of me, I can't — "

"I am only joking too. Why are you so upset?" — It's laughing at him, it's mocking him, but he doesn't have the brainpower to even try pulling away, too wound up in his fear.

"I get it, I get it, just please, please just let go, I don't want to, I c-can't, I can't…"

It is so proud of itself, but he can't even be mad at it. All he notices is a glint in its eyes, a horrible sign he has learned to fear as much as the arrival of the abomination itself — it has got an idea.

It giggles to itself, and that sound feels like a promise of pain, — "I would let go, but, you see…" — It is leaning down over him once more, but it doesn't stop there. It comes closer and closer, grabbing hold of the back of the couch and another leg for balance, climbing on top of him, and his brain finally activates, much too late, to force him to struggle away. He can't anymore, not that it would have helped. — "I am just so lonely. So very lonely I am. I need interaction with other beings! I need to be very, very close to another person so I can feel their warmth. I need to touch them and keep them close. I need it, you see. I am very lonely."

"Ah-, wait n-, no, stop!"

Something is dripping onto him. Saliva, blood, who knows what it is.

"I'm so lonely…" — it muses, forcing his head back so it can bury its head under his chin.

It is breathing on him. He can feel its ice cold exhales right on his neck.

"Get off of me!" — he yells out in desperation, no longer caring to please it — he is positive he will scream if it starts nibbling on him.

"Huuu-mannn..." — it drawls lazily, draping itself over him. He can feel at least three pairs of limbs enveloping him and it's suffocating.

"God, just, just stop it already, please! I-I said I'm sorry," — his own voice quivers, suspiciously close to crying. He's certain it can feel him shivering.

"Mmm… No." — Its voice is reverberating through his entire chest. He gasps when a finger slides over a fresh enough bruise from their last meeting, the expulsion of air forming into a rather pathetic sound as he tries to choke it down.

He squirms under it, gasping for air, until he finally stops, grasping how truly futile it is to fight it. He lets out a defeated keen of misery, and sobs. He cries under it, no longer having the energy to care about what it thinks of him. Whether it finds him pathetic or amusing, whether it mocks him or hurts him. He wants to be anywhere but here.

It says nothing, for a while. It doesn't move, however. It must just be listening to him weeping, enjoying it as much as it was enjoying mocking him, just like it was enjoying going through with its devilish plan to get him to this point. That's all it ever wants; to watch him upset and hurt.

When it talks, it is so sudden he jumps in surprise, — "You are the lonely one here, truly. Unable to handle even this much affection."

He doesn't find it in himself to answer. He wishes it wasn't so good at hitting where it hurts. It snorts out something of a chuckle.

"If you ask me sweetly enough, I will consider purring for you. Like your stray cats."

No answer, not even a small sound of disdain aimed at it. It tries again.

"Would you like that?"

Nothing. Only calm breaths, long and peaceful.

It lifts its head to look at him, confused by the sudden change, and finds him passed out like a light. It hadn't known he was so tired. Maybe another effect of loneliness? It is unsure.

It hums in thought, watching him sleep like it always does. It's interesting to it; the concept of sleep. It loves the way its human looks while he is unconscious — it rarely sees him so content. It tried to sleep a couple times, but it doesn't think it succeeded.

"Lonely little human…. My lonely little human…" — it hums.

A haunting melody. Its voice sounds so unnatural and guttural, like a broken radio playing a broken record. It doesn't fully understand music yet either, so all it does is repeat the same tune and the same words. To it, it's comforting, while the human described it as a horror movie soundtrack. It doesn't matter to it; it likes humming.

"I like your company," — it murmurs, — "perhaps I am lonely too…"

It isn't sure, but what it is sure about, is that it likes comforting its human an awful lot. It doesn't think it comforted anyone before. It isn't even sure it's doing it right.

It feels right, at least, it thinks before clicking off the TV with a rush of static, and the darkness.

< Masterlist

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee woke up with a groan with the worst headache of their life. What the hell happened? They were in a war meeting, and then... nothing.

Their vision blurred, and all they could see was red and brown. The fort that they were in with the other recruits was likely destroyed by the explosion now, likely leaving no survivors besides them.

...Explosion...

Their vision cleared, and what they saw made them gasped. Pain flared up from their leg immediately, the pain so excruciating they wanted to scream.

In front of them was a large wooden shrapnel from the fort, dug deep into their leg and pinning it to the ground. Blood continuously oozed out of the wound, with some of it landing on the wood. Each and every movement Whumpee made caused pain to strike, and they try to stifle a scream.

They gritted their teeth before reaching out to their leg. They ignored the rising pain as they reached towards their leg. It took a moment, but eventually, their fingers brushed the wood before gripping it. They gritted their teeth so hard it began to hurt as they tried not to scream once more. They closed their eyes before they began to pull. Pain shot up, worse than last time, as they attempted to pull out the object that was keeping them down.

They had to get that shrapnel out. And since they could see that no one else was around, it was up to them to save themself.

[captain-bo-bob-bobby]

Thinking about a Whumper with multiple Whumpees; and having different pet names for each one. He calls his favorites the good ones, like "kitten" and "dove". He calls the others by different variations, but the ones he dislikes the most are called "slave" and "mutt".

Mutt wants nothing more than to be Master's good dog. But, Mutt is just so useless, so worthless, that he starts to beg for Master to put him down.

[whimp-whamp-whump]

okay but i love whumpers-turned-whumpees .. i want whumper to break as they have broken others; i want the redemption arcs, non-linear healing and coping, the realizations, the guilt - oh my god the guilt, (loss of) second chances. maybe they dont deserve to redeem themselves. maybe theyve done such horrible things that everyone knows they dont deserve a caretaker. "whyd you rescue them? nothing will change." the rejection. the only familiar, comforting faces being those that wish to get rid of them. the forced change of character. perhaps even an apology. will they go back to their old ways? or have they truly learned? or maybe .. its too late to enact the change they so desperately want to prove: they are good now. once the bleeding stops, they can prove it ...... right?

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Chapter 71: Backslide

TWs in the tags

Previous

Masterlist

Next

Today’s been a bad day. You sit outside in the rain because being inside at all makes you feel trapped, and really you still feel trapped outside because you can’t leave the boundaries of the magical protection, but it’s better than being inside.

Diya stays out with you, holding an umbrella over the both of you. Still, you’re soaking wet, your hair and clothes plastered to your skin.

“You’ll make yourself sick, out in the cold and rain for so long.” Ey says.

“Hmm. Cold and wet alone can’t make you sick. It just makes your immune system slightly weaker. Unless you’re talking about hypothermia. But it’s really not that cold.”

“If you say so.”

You aren’t sure why Diya only brought out one umbrella, but you don’t ask. You’re enjoying being close to em. It makes you feel a bit safer.

“You don’t have to stay out here with me.”

“I know.”

You’re glad Diya is here. As scared as you are, you trust em, and em being here stops you from getting swept away in memories.

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel safe inside the cabin? Or anything Barron or Greg can do?”

“…I want Puppy and Kitty.”

“Maybe Barron can check on them again. Let’s go ask.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to talk to Barron.”

“…Okay, I’ll talk to Barron, and you’ll get in some dry clothes. Come on.”

You shake your head again. “You worry about me too much. I’ve been caught in worse storms than this. I’ll come inside when I’ve calmed down a bit more, okay? You should go talk to Barron, though.”

…Why did you say that? You don’t want Diya to leave, ey’s keeping you connected to the present right now.

“Oh, is this- are you asking to be left alone?”

“…No. I just want you to talk to Barron, and I don’t want to be near it.”

“So… you trust Barron to check on your friends, but not to be near you or talk to you?”

Your face is warm. “I know it’s stupid.”

"It’s not stupid! I just wanted to make sure I was understanding correctly. I’ll go talk to it, and then I’ll be back.”

“Thank you.”

Diya hands you the umbrella and leaves you alone in the mud, but as soon as ey closes the door it opens again, and Greg steps out.

You smile weakly at them. They don’t smile back, but you’re used to that. They only smile when they’re scared.

“Do you want some saltines?”

“Ha. Sure.”

“They’ll get soggy if you eat them out here.”

You sigh. “I know. Just give me a minute.”

“…You know we wouldn’t be pushing you if it was nice outside. But this isn’t good for you.”

You gesture at your umbrella. “I have an umbrella.”

“You’re soaking wet. Please come inside. Do you trust me?”

Greg stares at you, no emotions detectable in their expression. And you trust them. You trust them and Diya and Barron. And it’s not enough.

“I do. I just… can’t.”

“What do you think will happen if you come inside?”

“I’ll be trapped. I’ll feel trapped.”

“We’d never keep you here against your will. I bet Barron would get you a tent if you said you wanted to stay out here long term. A nice waterproof one.”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Just come inside for five minutes. Just dry off and change your clothes, and then you can decide if you want to come back out here.”

It really is uncomfortable, sitting out in the rain. Your socks are wet.

…Just five minutes. You can handle that. Just five minutes. They’d let you back out. They’d let you live in a tent outside the house if you wanted.

“I don’t know if I’m even, like, scared. I guess I thought I was, but I just feel kind of… gross? Just… weird. I feel weird and the one reason I could untangle was feeling trapped”

Greg nods. “I get it. I really do. The way you’re feeling… I get it. It doesn’t last. We’ll help you untangle everything. Just come inside.

“…okay. Okay. I believe you. I trust you.”

Slowly, you rise out of the mud, and go back into the cabin, following Greg.

Your stomach twists as you close the door behind you. Trapped, trapped, trapped. Just five minutes.

—

After a shower much longer than five minutes, you get into dry clothes and meet Greg in the living room, collapsing on the couch next to them.

“How are you feeling?” They ask.

“…Better. I think. Did Diya talk to Barron?”

Greg nods. “Ey still is, but about different stuff now. Barron will prepare some invisibility and teleportation spells, and check on your friends when it gets an opportunity. Do you still feel trapped?”

“A little.”

“You’re not wearing your collar.” They observe.

You’ve been keeping it off for longer and longer lately. You default to keeping it off, now, and put it on when you’re freaking out and need the small sense of safety it brings. You had it on out in the rain, but you took it off to shower and haven’t put it back on.

“Yeah… I’m trying to be brave.” You mean it as a sort of joke, poking fun at yourself for taking off a collar being an act of bravery, but your voice cracks.

“Are things still feeling tangled?”

“A little. I was thinking in the shower, though, and I thought about asking you guys to start calling me Liam, and it was scary, but it also felt like that… knot of confusing feelings unraveled a bit.”

“You want us to call you Liam?”

Deep breath. “Yes. I’m ready.”

“What else feels tangled, Liam?”

Fear makes a chill run down your skin, but you feel the knot unravel more.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts. Greg lets you. “It- it feels worse when I think about how I can’t leave. Because Jane will find me if I do. But then I imagine leaving after we find a way to- to kill her, and that feels bad too, and I just- everything feels bad.”

Greg stares at you, thinking. Probably. You look away.

“Wanting to leave and wanting to be able to leave are different things. It makes sense to me.”

The knot untangles further. “Right. Right! I- I want to be here, but I want it to be my choice. I don’t want to have to be here.”

“That makes sense. We’re working towards making that possible.”

“You… you are? Does- if Jane was dead, and I wanted to stay… I could?”

“Of course.”

You barely feel tangled at all, now. “Thank you.”

Greg winces.

“Oh, sorry- damn it.”

“It’s fine. What else is bothering you?”

You feel a lot better. “I think… now it’s just the normal stress that’s always in the back of my mind. With that, distraction usually helps.”

“What’s always in the back of your mind?”

You frown. “Well, right now it’s that I should have my collar on, or I’m going to get hurt.” Deep breath. “And that if I leave Jane will catch me and hurt me, and that Kitty and Puppy are being hurt, and that I trust you all but I’ve learned, painfully, that I’m bad at reading people. And we don’t know what Jane is and maybe she could get in here, maybe she’s watching right now and she’s going to kill you all and punish me and punish Kitty and Puppy and make me eat your bodies-“ You cut yourself off. Deep breaths. Empty your lungs before taking another breath.

“You’ve come a long way since we first brought you here.”

“I’m still nervous when I don’t have that fucking collar on.”

“And yet, you spend most of your time not wearing it, and you can go by your own name, and you can calm yourself down when you’re scared.”

You want to argue back that you still wake up screaming at least once a week and start feeling worse at complete random, but… there really wouldn’t be a point to doing that. Greg would say that you’re still better at coping than when you first got here, and they’d be right.

“I just want a distraction right now. Can you please distract me?”

“Of course.” Greg stares at you. It doesn’t make you uncomfortable anymore. “I need to change my name again. Do you have any ideas?”

“Oh. Sure. What kind of names do you like?”

“I don’t really have any preferences. So long as the new name sounds different from the one before it.”

“Hmm…” You don’t want to give them a meaningless, random name. “Why don’t you pick a first letter for your name, and then I’ll give you some ideas.”

Greg stares. Definitely thinking. “X.” They say.

They might be teasing you. You can’t tell. “Uh… Xander. Xavier. Um…X-ray.”

Greg puffs out some air. “Ray. I’ll be Ray.”

“Really? It sounds pretty similar to Greg.”

“Yeah. I like it.” Greg- Ray’s hands shake and their eyes slide closed.

“Are- are you okay?”

“Yes. I like the name. It makes me happy.”

“Oh.” It seems obvious now. Of course Gr- Ray would smile when they’re scared and shake when they’re happy. “Can I ask- well, you don’t have to answer. But why do you need to change your name? I know that names are powerful to fae, but wouldn’t just going by a different name fix that? Why does it have to change?”

Ray shakes their head. “It’s hard to explain. I could just go by a different name, without ever changing it. But your name isn’t what’s on your birth certificate. It’s the name you identify with. Just going by a different name, I would still be vulnerable, because someone could find out my true name. But if I don’t identify with any name at all… if I don’t think of myself as having a real name, then my name can’t be used against me. But if I just went by Greg or Karen or something without ever changing it, I would start to identify with it. So I have to change it every time it gets too comfortable. Does that make sense?”

“I think so?” The talk about names makes you curious. “When I only went by Bunny, and didn’t remember the name Liam, could a faery have had power over me from the name Bunny?”

“Did you think of yourself as Bunny, or was that just what the people you lived with called you?”

“…It depended on the day. I thought of myself as Bunny more and more as time went on.”

“Then it would’ve depended on the day. I bet some days, they would’ve had to have the name Liam. Which is interesting, because it would mean your true name was a name you didn’t remember.”

“Can you have multiple true names?”

“I can’t think of any reason why you couldn’t. I’m not an expert. I think you’d just have to identify with all of them pretty much equally. Do you think that would make someone more vulnerable, or less? More names means more ways to gain power over someone, but it also makes each individual name less powerful. I think. Because if you can give away your name and still have another name to fall back on… interesting.”

You’re having trouble following. Instead of trying to focus and figure it out until you get a headache, you relax and just listen to their voice. They have a very nice voice.

Greg was right. Ray was right. You’ve come a long way. You can freak out about something without it ruining your whole week, or even your day.

There’s still a long way to go. There’s still so much fear in the back of your mind, all the time, and every time you make progress you end up freaking out for a while after. It’s going to be two steps forward one step back the whole way. Right now, you’re okay with that. And Ray said you could stay here as long as you want, and that Barron would let you live in a tent outside if you wanted, and you don’t feel trapped.

You will again. But not right now. You rest your head on Ray’s shoulder and listen to them talk about names and fae and magic.

~~

Kitty is trying to be compliant. They really, really are. They refer to Jane as Master every time they speak to her, they don’t talk back, they are quiet and polite and they keep the stupid headband on.

Things have not gone back to normal. Jane has not taken off Puppy’s muzzle or Kitty’s headband. This is the normal now. They don’t get to just be obedient anymore.

It’s driving Kitty fucking insane. It makes their insides itch and burn every time they hold back a snarky comment, every time they do more than the bare minimum to meet Jane’s demands, and every time they think “what would Jane want me to do?”

They never would’ve called the old normal “tolerable” until now. They didn’t realize how much they depended on the ability to have small defiances. Without that ability, they don’t feel like a person and they feel like their body isn’t their own. Is this how Puppy feels all the time? They can’t stand it. They aren’t built for this, they’ve never been built for this!

They remember that it felt similar when they were first let out of the basement, after months and months of torture. Like they weren’t themself anymore. But they adapted. They found ways to be themself while being safe. Ways to defy that made Jane roll her eyes but not drag them down to the basement.

They’ll adapt again. They’ll figure out how to appear perfectly compliant while making veiled insults, and how to pretend they’re trying to keep Jane happy while doing the opposite. They’ll figure it out. But until then, they’ll keep feeling like their insides are being scooped out with a rusty spoon.

They kneel at Jane’s feet while she braids Puppy’s hair. Compliant. A good pet. Their face burns and they squirm with the effort to not glare and snarl.

Jane pats their head. “Relax, Kitty. You’re fine. If you’re good I’ll give you some medicine to make it easier.”

They bite their tongue and rock back and forth. They hate this so much.

Jane laughs. Puppy stares straight ahead as Jane tugs on her hair. “Silly Kitty. You’re so cute. Cute little Kitty-cat.”

They dig their fingernails into their palms, careful to avoid breaking skin. Jane doesn’t like other people damaging her property.

“We’re going to get Bunny back, soon. Can you imagine his face when he sees you kneeling at my side? Eating from my hands without protest? And of course he’ll be shocked to see my Puppy muzzled and missing an ear. And he’ll be so good, once he realizes there’s no escape.”

Kitty rocks in double time.

“All my pets will be so sweet and compliant for me, doesn’t that sound nice, Kitty? Doesn’t it?”

Kitty doesn’t answer. Jane has been doing this taunting often, testing to see if she can goad Kitty into giving her a reason to punish them. They’re starting to reach a breaking point. They aren’t built for this.

“Come on, Kitty. Tell Master it sounds nice, and you want to be good for her. I’m almost done with Puppy’s hair. I’ll give you some medicine and you won’t even remember where you are. It’ll be nice. Say ‘that sounds nice, Master.’”

Kitty watches themself pull the headband off their head and snap it in half. They’re more surprised by their actions than Jane seems to be. Well, now they’ll get punished anyway. They throw the pieces at Jane and rise to their feet, seething.

Jane just smiles and whispers something in Puppy’s ear. Puppy gets up and leaves the room.

“I don’t think you thought that through very well, Kitten.”

“Fuck you!” They spit. They tower over Jane. She’s so much smaller up close.

Jane just laughs. She always just laughs. “Are you going to come down to the basement nicely, or will I have to throw you down the stairs?”

God, they want to attack her, but they already know all she’d do is laugh. They shake with rage.

“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. I hope that there’s an afterlife just so that even if you find a way to die, you will never get any peace or rest in your entire miserable existence.”

Jane sighs and grabs their wrist. They kick and scream and fight the whole way, and still Jane drags them to the staircase. They cannot pry her fingers off. Why is she so strong? They hate that, they hate that she can drag them around like that! They hate her!

Jane shoves them down the stairs. They scream as they fall, and they land hard on the basement floor, knocking the breath out of them. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. Jane stalks down the stairs, a knife in hand and a cold smile on her lips.

Kitty tries to curse at her as they get their breath back. “Fuck you! I was so good! I did everything you wanted! I followed every rule! I put everything I had into being your perfect little pet, and it wasn’t enough for you! It’s never enough for you! You just like to see me fail! But I tried, I tried! I tried to be good!”

They pant, still lying on the ground, trying to push themself up. Jane approaches slowly and takes off their collar.

“Sensory deprivation will be the most effective," she begins, “but I want to cut into you a bit first.”

Kitty screams (they can’t tell if it’s in fear or anger) and tries to get to their feet, but Jane is on top of them before they know it, and she doesn’t bother with taking their shirt off, she just slashes at their torso.

“I can’t! I can’t be compliant! I can’t be good, I’ve never been able to, I’ve never been built for this! I tried! I tried!” Their angry yelling sounds suspiciously like sobbing. “I can’t do it! I’m broken! I can’t do it! I’ve never been able to do it! I’m just bad and I’ve always been bad and if you’re waiting for me to be as good as Puppy you might as well just kill me!”

Jane has stopped cutting them. She stares at them in fascination. Her eyes shine dangerously. “Well? Keep going, pretty Kitty. Tell me more about how defective you are.”

“I hate you!”

“So you’ve said.”

“I gave you everything! I let you get in my head, I let you make me feel guilty, and I told myself I’d never let anyone do that again! I’ve given you everything I have! There’s not more obedience waiting inside me, waiting to be beaten out! You’ve seen the best I can do! There’s no more! I can’t be the person you want me to be!”

“You underestimate yourself. You underestimate me.”

Kitty screams in frustration. “I don’t have it! I don’t have whatever makes everyone else capable of being good! It makes me feel like there’s bugs under my skin! I can’t do it! I’ve tried, I’ve tried so hard!”

Jane just watches, fascinated by their breakdown. “Keep going.”

Kitty’s worn themself out. “I tried. There’s nothing more I can give. I don’t have it. I’m not good. I can’t, I’m not built for it…” They trail off into mumbles.

“You don’t have to be. I will break you down to ash and rebuild you if I have to.” She leans in close. “And everyone will like you better that way. Everyone will be glad I did.”

Usually, Jane’s insults just slide off them, but this one hits its target. No one’s ever liked them, not even Puppy and Bunny. They just make things worse for everyone. They sob and the cuts in their chest weep.

Jane combs fingers through their hair and wipes tears from their eyes. “You want this as much as I do. You want me to fix you.”

Any other time, Kitty would laugh at a statement like that. But they don’t feel like themself right now. They feel like a little kid who knows they make everything worse for everyone and will never, ever be able to be good like everyone else.

They nod. Yes, they want someone to fix them.

“Sweet thing. You won’t feel that way later, of course. But feeling that way at all… that’s progress. That’s amazing progress. Lie still, now. I’ll fix you.”

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

[zoethehead]

Well, here's the part in the story when Asmodeus is in the morgue

Asmodeus felt cold metal against his back. He opened his eyes to darkness, he jolted up; regretting it as his head hit against something and his wounds ached. he realized that he was somewhere different, somewhere cramped and cold, he tried kicking down whatever was holding him prisoner, he didn't care if the fractured bones in his leg broke more, all he cared about was getting out of that cold space.

And eventually, he was granted that freedom.

*THUD*

Asmodeus kicked open the morgue fridge's door so hard that he accidentally pushed himself all the way out of where he was, landing a few feet down to the now blood stained tile floors.

He sees a bright light and instinctively shields his eyes , he blinked and soon looked down at himself; he had been cut open. He saw that his torso's skin had been pulled back; revealing the viscera inside him.

He was horrified and knew that he had to escape, he wrapped the corpse tarp tightly around his chest to keep his organs in place.

That's when he knew that he wasn't even wearing anything to begin with, he chose to not care too much about that, as he had to get out of this place, and quick!

Asmodeus got up and slung an arm around his opened chest cavity, limping towards the door, turning the doorknob to see if it was locked.

It wasn't.

Asmodeus tried to not make much noise, fearing that he'd be caught.

He eventually made it out of the funeral home and just booked it.

Asmodeus ran off, not knowing where his legs were taking him.

Soon, he saw something, a house.

He knocked on the door, as he felt his legs give out beneath him, and darkness filled his vision once again......

[holidayinhell]

CWs: blood, captivity Whump, failed escape Whump.

“You ran.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fucking sorry.”

He grabbed Whumpee’s face.

“You. Ran.”

He smacked Whumpee across the cheek. Hard.

The man crashed backwards onto the concrete from the blow. Grime cut into the exposed flesh of his torso as he awkwardly shuffled along the bottom of the cement wall, he desperately inched deeper down the hallway in a useless attempt to flee from his deranged captor.

Whumpee's eyes flashed between the man skulking towards him and the stairway at the end of the narrow passage. It was fifteen, maybe ten feet away. Freedom was so close, he only needed to make it up the steps! But Whumpee could barely keep his head up, much less walk, not to mention the ropes binding his wrists together. There was no way he’d get out.

A shadow fell over Whumpee's form.

“Stopstop stop. I did-didn’t--”

Whumper dropped to his haunches, locking his penetrating gaze to the shattered man’s wide eyes. Whumper had bloodshed on the mind. The killer’s gaze fixated on Whumpee with a cold fascination of a predator rearing to devour its prey.

A powerful surge of adrenaline coursed through Whumpee’s veins, urging him to find the strength to flee. But he couldn’t. With nowhere to run, the cocktail of epinephrine and all-encompassing terror made him freeze in place, he began hyperventilating so quickly he thought he might pass out. The broken man’s eyes squeezed shut.

 “Please. Y—you’re scaring me.”

“Then you’re about to be fuckin’ terrified.”

Whumpee squirmed against the ropes behind him. His busy fingers traced the lines, desperately praying he could burrow into a weak spot to unfurl. But, as always, ropes around his wrists were knotted with expert precision.

“Why’d you do it?” He snarled, grasping a fistful of hair and pulling Whumpee’s eyes directly into his terrifying, animalistic gaze. “Why did you fucking do it, Whumpee?” His wicked eyes demanded an explanation.

“I didn’t think.” He responded weakly. “I wasn’t thinking, I--.”

Whumper wound his arm back and delivered another bone-shattering smack across Whumpee’s cheek.

“Maybe I'll just cut out your tongue.”

“N-no. Please!! I was starving," the thin man pled frantically. "I thought you’d forgotten about me so I—ah, AHHH!”

The metallic smell of blood filled the air as a stream of blood trickled the length of Whumpee’s arm. Fuck, fuck.

“PLEASE!” Whumpee wailed.

Lightly chuckling, Whumper pulled the box cutter from the wound he'd buried in Whumpee’s shoulder.

“Try again, Whumpee. Why'd you run?" the killer demanded.

Whumpee tucked his legs into his chest protectively. “It was a mistake. I'm scared, I don’t know! You’re k-killing more people.” Salty tears cut clean tracks through the grime on his round, filthy cheeks. "Th-those girls from last week. And Caretaker-hic- you killed him too, I, I--!"

Whumpee's head raced uncontrollably as he fought to steady his breath, struggling to calm his mind from this waking nightmare.

“You stopped feeding me. It's been, I think five days, or, no, a week. I don’t know how long it’s been.” He fought the sob aching in the back of his throat. “I don’t know how long it’s been, I'm so hungry, I just...”

The small man let out a heartbreaking yowl when the knife slashed into his shin.

"Don't do this!" Whumpee shrieked.

Whumper offered no words of comfort. He loved seeing Whumpee like this, raw and trembling and begging for mercy.

Stripping away the man's pride had been a painstaking process, it had taken months for Whumpee to understand his rightful place. And now, finally, Whumpee’s soul was laid bare for the killer to devour. Nothing brought him more pleasure than watching Whumpee unravel.

“I-I know my...my r-ransom date. Is coming. And I know my parents are gonna pay up soon.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” The killer said quickly.

Whumpee’s eyes peaked over his bleeding legs, heavy tears rolling down his cheeks. He was so fragile and pathetic it was almost heartbreaking.

Whumper smirked, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

“Oh Whumpee. Life’s just a living hell for you, ain’t it? Ya can't wave your money around and get what you want like you used to.”

“Please. I’m sorry.”

An uneasy silence settled between them as Whumper's gaze raked over Whumpee. A bizarre, cruel grin twisted on his lips.

Whumper let out a nightmarish cackle.

“I can’t blame ya for trying.” He smirked. God Whumpee was fun.

“I’m sorry.” Whumpee repeated earnestly, sniffling. He exhaled. “I won’t be a problem for you ever again.”

The promise hung heavy in the air.

“I know that.” Whumper responded, nodded somberly, his eyes darkening. He rocked back on his heels and stood, his looming figure cast a shadow over the broken man.

 “Cuz I'm gonna have to kill ya.”

The blood drained from Whumpee’s face. 

“What a waste, too.” Whumper sighed. “You ruined something that was goin’ well for ya. I trusted you, I thought you were one of the good ones.”

“No-no, I’m good. I’m still good, I’ll be good! I’ll do anything yo—.”

Whumper drove his heel into the side of Whumpee’s face, sending his head crashing into the unforgiving basement floor. Pain exploded through Whumpee’s body, the unforgiving surface scraping his skin raw.

He lay still for a moment, breathless and stunned. The cold, hard cement pressed uncomfortably against his cheek.

"Don't. Don't."

“I need you to understand something: you lost your privilege to live the second you opened that fucking door.”

Barely above a whisper, Whumpee pleaded again. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

Whumper flicked the boxcutter open.

“I’m gonna do a hell of a lot more than just hurt you.”

[whomeidontknowthem]

Punishments

Content warning: discussion of past child abuse (physical and emotional), mentions of scars, starvation, punishments.

Caretaker saw the exact moment Whumpee's scarred hands relaxed, releasing the plate to its short attempt at flight. The shatter didn't even sound that loud with all the TV noise and running water in the background, but Caretaker felt his attention sharpen, focusing on the teen's face. Whumpee's expression was carefully neutral; only their eyes shined with something wild. Caretaker put the knife by the cutting board, turned the fire under the pan down and faced the kid.

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice level. "Why did you do that?"

Whumpee met his eyes with something like a challenge. "You have to punish me now," they stated, tone forcefully brave. Caretaker saw the way they shifted, moving their hands behind their back, hiding the way they had to shake.

He hummed, taking a moment to think the situation through. "I told you last time that I won't be punishing you."

"You said you wouldn't punish an accident," Whumpee corrected. "This isn't an accident. I did it on purpose. You saw it. You have to punish me now."

"I won't," Caretaker repeated. The kid stared at him, wide-eyed. He sighed, "I really did mean when I said it. There are no punishments here. I won't hurt you. We'll just clean up the glass together, and—"

"What if I refuse to clean," Whumpee demanded. Caretaker raised his brows before wrangling his expression back under control. It was nearly the first time Whumpee dared to interrupt — rude, definitely. It made them feel more like an actual teen. Teenagers just had to be bratty from time to time. It was healthy for them. Caretaker hadn't got to be a father to one, but he was sure of that.

"Well, then I'll have to clean it up by myself," He shrugged. He made sure to sound unbothered. "I'll have to do it before cooking, of course, so the dinner's gonna have to wait."

The kid seemed to freeze at that, their body going unnaturally still in a way that screamed Caretaker did something wrong. But before he could ask, Whumpee wondered, voice tight, "No dinner?"

Ah. "Of course not," Caretaker hurried to assure. Whumpee was still too thin, they'd been starved before. "There will be dinner, just slightly later without your help. You'll get to eat either way."

Caretaker smiled, hoping it would get the kid to relax. It didn't: their face only seemed to grow tenser. They stared at Caretaker, thinking about something. Then: "What if I break another plate?"

"Ah," Caretaker replied, lightly. "I would really rather you didn't? It would be rather inconvenient."

"What if I break two more?" The teen continued. "Three? All of them?" It sounded like a challenge. They moved their hand to where the clean plates stood in a nice careful stack, freshly washed and settled by the sink.

Caretaker took a deep breath. "I would really rather you didn't," he repeated. "Those cost money. We'll have to eat from the salad bowl and it won't be convenient, and then go to a shop to buy more."

"You'll have to punish me," Whumpee insisted.

"I won't hurt you, kid. No matter what you do—"

"What if I hurt you," they replied instantly and flinched, as if scared by their own forcefulness. Even then, they didn't back down. "What if I— if I punched you. You can't just let it go. What if I kick you or- or take the knife," they said and gestured to the counter, barely missing the cheerful cup with childish scribbles for a pattern perched at its edge.

Caretaker took a deep, deep breath and answered, weighing each word carefully, "if you attack me, I would have to stop you," he stated, as calmly as he could. The idea of having to fight the terrified kid with a knife was not an appealing one. He silently prayed it would not get to it. "I'd try to restrain you so you don't hurt me. I'd wait for you to calm down, and then we'd sit down to talk some more. I won't hurt you."

You're angry," Whumpee pointed.

Caretaker huffed, "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm… Frustrated," he relented and sighed. He felt extremely unprepared for the conversation. "Look, kid. I know you expect me to be like that asshole. But I won't be. I'll try my damn hardest to make sure of that."

"You don't like this conversation," Whumpee stated, again.

Caretaker shook his head, "no."

"What if I make it continue? What if I anger you?"

"If you do anger me, I will leave the room until I calm down. I won't hurt you just because I don't like a conversation," Caretaker promised.

Whumpee stared at him, lips pressed tightly. They reached out and took the stack of plates.

Caretaker watched them closely. "Look, Whumpee…"

"You can't just let me act like this!" They yelled. Caretaker couldn't help their brows rising at the sudden shift in tone. As if the scream broke the dam, the other reactions poured out of them: the trembling fingers, the suddenly wet, shaky breaths, the need to blink and look up to hold back the tears. Caretaker shifted his weight, unsure if he should step closer or remain where he was. Even after months of living together, knowing whether the teen needed comfort or space at any given moment was beyond him.

He settled on continuing with the words, "Whumpee. Even if I disapprove of your actions, I will not hurt you for them. I'll talk to you, I'll ask you to help clean up afterwards, I'll try to help you find out what's wrong and how to make it better so you don't have to throw dishes around. I will not hurt you."

"But what if it doesn't make me learn? What if I don't follow the rules, and- and act like a brat and I don't listen to you and I never- I never stop? You'll have to punish me, you'll have to get rid of me, you can't just- you can't just let me do whatever! You can't just! How can I learn if there's no punishment!"

"You've learned how to wash dishes well enough," Caretaker pointed out.

"It's different!"

"How so?"

Whumpee stared at him, and seemed to come up with no answer. Their fingers slackened around the stack, and Caretaker mentally prepared to not react when all of the dishes inevitably touched the floor. Whumpee sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and settled the plates back onto the counter. "I don't understand," they slumped above the dishes.

"It's okay," Caretaker assured them. "You don't have to understand for it to be true." He let out a tentative breath and stepped closer, carefully choosing empty spots between the broken glass, but didn't reach out to touch. By now, he knew well enough not to — he'd been witness to how even the most innocuous of actions could throw them off and straight into panic, especially when they were already agitated.

"It isn't," they didn't look at him. "It's not how it works. You can't possibly expect to raise a— you had a daughter, hadn't you?" Caretaker froze, glad that the teen couldn't see his face. She was not a topic either of them breached; Whumpee knew she'd died; they knew the thought was still upsetting for Caretaker and were careful to never bring it up despite how obvious the ghost of her existence was still around the house in every bright colored piece of wallpaper and childish drawing kept on the wall. They continued on, either ignorant to his reaction or choosing to ignore it. "Surely you didn't just allow her to do whatever! There need to be rules, need to be limitations and consequences!"

"Whatever was given to you as 'rules and consequences' wasn't that, kid," Caretaker leaned on the counter and studied the ceiling. "Discipline isn't an excuse for cruelty."

"You have to have punished her."

"I have," he admitted and turned to the teen only for his gaze to settle on the cheerful little cup. "I wasn't as good of a father as I hoped I'd be. Children are frustrating — they are meant to be. If I knew how little time we had — how precious she was even at her worst, — maybe I'd have acted differently. God knows I wish I have. Whether she'd lived for longer or, well..." he swallowed. Shook his head. "You deserve better, anyway, and so — I'm trying."

"...Whumper said he loved me. This was why he had to make sure I had motivation to learn to be better. To not be a brat. He wanted me to be good."

Caretaker studied the face of the teen — the lines around their eyes and mouth despite the calm voice. The way they gripped the edge of the countertop and didn't seem to see anything before them. He sighed, deeply, and stated, "He was a fool and an asshole."

Whumpee didn't answer that, only tightened the grip. Caretaker had never heard them say a single bad word about Whumper. Despite the scars and the panic attacks, they seemed determined to never acknowledge the harm they had suffered; whether the kid genuinely didn't blame him or just kept their thoughts to themself, Caretaker couldn't know.

He hoped the latter was the case. Whumpee deserved to know that the way they were treated was not right.

"He wanted a perfect child that would never misbehave or bother him, and it's not possible. Hell, even an adult can't just never bother anyone else. We are all nuisances to each other. He demanded you weren't and punished you for not achieving the impossible all the time. It's on him, not on you."

The teen listened, Caretaker could tell, thought about it, seriously considered the idea for a while.

"Nobody would want a child who doesn't behave," they stated finally.

Caretaker huffed, frustrated. "If someone only wants a perfect child, they shouldn't be a parent to begin with."

"You wanted your daughter to—"

"I did not!"

They froze after that, both of them.

Caretaker slowly breathed out and unclenched his fists. He shouldn't be angry, he reminded himself. He shouldn't — the kid needed him to be calm and comforting. The memories of his daughter, taken from him so young, too young, by an illness he noticed too late, clung to his mind, too close and too real and too painful. He rubbed his eyes.

"Sorry, kid, I didn't mean to yell," he turned to Whumpee. They were still unmoving, still tense, as if waiting for a strike. Caretaker felt a wave of guilt wash over him. This child needed him to be much, much better. At moments as such he wondered how anyone could think that he could do this. How anyone could trust him with a kid at all, after he'd already failed once. There had to be someone better, he thought. There had to be.

"Let's just finish dinner together and go watch some movie, what do you think?" he proposed, keeping the tone light. If Whumpee heard how forced it sounded, they didn't show it.

The teen turned, slowly, avoiding looking at Caretaker. He kept the smile on his lips, hands relaxed where Whumpee could see them. That was it. They would go watch a movie and spend time together and talk later, when both have calmed down somewhat.

Whumpee put their hand atop the counter. Before Caretaker could react, they jerked it. Before Caretaker could react, his favorite cup, the one his daughter took such pleasure decorating, was already flying towards the floor. It shatter sounded like thunder in his ears.

Caretaker breathed in. Counted to ten. Breathed out. Repeated, over and over, eyes focused on the colorful shards, until he was certain he could keep his tone calm.

"This," he didn't raise his head but heard the teen step away, "was a jerk move."

"I'm so—" they stopped themself before the apology was out and gritted their teeth. Caretaker breathed, and then breathed some more, and even longer still, pushing down every bit of irritation and anger. Teens were meant to be bratty. Children were meant to be a bothersome nuisance that tested the patience of every adult stuck to be responsible for them.

Whumpee needed him to be calm. Needed to learn they were safe even if they misbehaved.

"Will you help me pick up the glass?" He finally raised his gaze. Whumpee was pale, eyes wide and lips tightly pressed in a scared line. They held his gaze and shook their head even as they stepped backwards, determination mixed with panic.

"It's okay," Caretaker kept his voice calm. "If you don't want to help, go watch some TV, will you? I'll call you when dinner is ready."

Whumpee stepped backwards again, flickering their gaze towards the living room before settling on watching his movements again. He raised his hands slowly and didn't move any closer.

"I'm still not going to hurt you." They didn't look like they believed, so he added, "I'm mad. You knew it was important to me and you knew it'd... hurt me." He relaxed his face as it contorted into a grimace. "I hope you don't do anything like this again. You're not getting punished. The dinner will be ready in an hour. I would appreciate some space until then. But if you need something, you can still come to me."

They watched him for long moments before slowly backing out of the kitchen. They didn't look away until they were behind the corner, and only they did Caretaker release a heavy, frustrated sigh.

Teenagers. Dealing with a teenager, especially such a traumatized one, was definitely far beyond what he was ever prepared to do.

He picked up the glass — both the plate and the cup combined — one little piece after the other, careful of the sharp edges. The cup had shattered into six bigger pieces, the silly snake with google eyes around the handle left unharmed while Caretaker had to try to put together the stick figures holding hands under a tree. There were still parts missing, the pieces so small he had little hope of finding them.

He sighed. Threw all of the glass in the trash bin. Vacuumed the spot quickly. Continued chopping the vegetables.

When he called Whumpee for dinner, they didn't respond. Caretaker could hear the TV still speaking in the living room but no sound from the teenager. It was normal, though, they were often awfully quiet.

He found them, huddled in a blanket and staring at the screen with unseeing eyes, when he brought two plates to the couch. They jerked when the cushion shifted under his weight and eyed Caretaker warily.

"You should eat," he pushed a plate across the coffee table, and they picked it up after a few bits of hesitation.

The dinner passed in silence, as did the rest of the evening. Caretaker put the plates away himself, ignoring the way the kid tensed when he moved closer to them, then returned to the couch, settling at the far corner. When he noticed Whumpee glance towards him, he patted the cushion at his side and put an arm over the sofa's back, but didn't insist when the kid quickly looked away.

They watched the TV in silence. It took the teen half an hour to move slightly closer, and even longer before they were sitting truly by his side. Caretaker kept his eyes on the screen as he dropped his arm over their shoulders in a semblance of a hug. They tensed immediately, breath hitching like an animal caught in a trap, and the man wondered if it was a mistake. If he'd overstepped and the kid needed something else from him. He debated pulling away and apologizing, but Whumpee beat him to it. He let them go the moment they moved away.

They returned a few minutes later, and only moved closer when he hugged them this time. They were choosing to come and were allowed to be as close or as distant as they needed, Caretaker tried to convey, keeping their arms loose. They were welcomed anyway, he tried to say through the gentle long strokes down their back as Whumpee pressed close to him.

They fought very hard to keep their sobs silent despite the shaking shoulders. Caretaker didn't comment on the growing wet patch on his chest, only kept them close and safe in his arms as the precious, bothersome and loved despite that kid they were.

When three days later he came from work to the sight of a cheerful cup at the table, he didn't recognize it for what it was the first few minutes. It was too familiar, had been a constant of his life for years, and as much as he'd missed it before it wasn't until he reached out to pour hot coffee in it that his brain caught up with it being back.

He stared at the snake's googly eyes and the uneven glue lines keeping the glass together.

It was hideous, truly. The scribbles had never been the pinnacle of artistry to begin with, and it was obvious the teen had never had to glue anything together in their whole life, and they definitely didn't think about polishing it or even just flattening the glue chunks. And it certainly wasn't usable anymore. Caretaker would not risk neither poisoning nor it falling apart in his hands from the boiling water.

It was absolutely perfect.

A work of his two kids, coming together despite the time and never having met.

He grinned as he put it as a centerpiece on a shelf where everyone could see it.

Maybe he was doing something right, after all.

[love-me-a-lotta-whump]

원더풀 월드 - Wonderful World - Whump List - 🇰🇷

Whumpee: 권선열 (Kwon Seon Yeol) played by 차은우 (Cha Eunwoo) of ASTRO

Synopsis: Psychology professor and famous author Eun Soo Hyun's life unravels when her son falls victim to an injustice that goes unpunished by the legal system. Having lost faith in the world, she decides to take matters into her own hands, seeking retribution for her son's death. Amidst her anguish, Eun Soo Hyun unexpectedly finds purpose in getting to know Kwon Seon Yeol. The two become entangled in mysterious cases and must fight against those who have done them wrong. (MDL)

Genre/Tags: Drama, Cop/Crime, Mystery, Found Family, Idol Drama, Revenge, Suspense, Chronic Condition/Illness

Watch On: DramaCool, KissAsian

WARNING: POSSIBLE SPOILERS BELOW

1.01-1.02 : none/no appearance

1.03 : chased, cornered, fought ::: cuts on his arms and face, treating his wounds, traumatic past brought up, angry, emotional ::: emotional ::: covered in bandages, emotional

1.04 : using himself as a human shield, angry ::: in a cell at a police station, looked after

1.05 : in a car chase (on a motorcycle 😍) ::: wound reveal, concern for him ::: jumping out of a building, chased

1.06 : stressed ::: panicked, concerned for someone ::: exhausted, stressed, concern for him, looked after, (flashbacks: panicked), upset ::: emotional, crying, trying to calm himself down ::: chest pain, holding his chest, concern for him ::: pushed, kicked in the chest, fought, thrown against a wall, punched in the face and stomach, sliding down the wall, concern for him ::: holding his stomach, bruised, cut lip, concern for him, angry ::: emotional, angry outbursts, teary eyed ::: looked after

1.07 : grabbed by the collar, bruised face ::: near tears, (traumatic flashbacks: grieving, crying, angry, held, sobbing ::: beaten), crying ::: someone mentions him not eating for days ::: (traumatic flashbacks: grieving, crying, angry, held, sobbing), near tears ::: (flashbacks: emotional, near tears ::: angry, pushed to the ground ::: (emotional flashbacks)

1.08 : pushing himself too far, concern for him, nearly collapsing, helped to sit, chest pain, holding his chest, shaking, emotional ::: (flashbacks: in the hospital)

1.09 : drunk ::: grabbed by the collar, pushed up against a wall, manhandled, near tears, angry

1.10 : emotional, (flashbacks: emotional, crying) ::: emotional, panicked, chest pain, holding his chest, sweating, struggling to stand, leaning against a wall, sweating, emotional, in shock, grieving, crying, struggling to stand ::: asleep, woken up, crying ::: grieving, crying

1.11 : grieving, crying ::: (flashbacks: anxious, exhausted, sweating) ::: crying, heavily lidded eyes ::: asleep, woken up, angry, crying ::: laying in the funeral home, looked after (basically) ::: crying, grieving ::: emotional, (flashbacks: taking medication for his heart), emotional, laying in bed, (flashbacks: in surgery ::: seeing his dead mother ::: fought, treating his wound ::: looked after ::: hurt, concern for him), sleeping for days, concern for him, weak, emotional, looked after (fed) ::: emotional, crying ::: angry, crying

1.12 : (flashbacks: scared, concerned for someone, crying ::: angry, restrained, manhandled, heavy breathing ::: in a depressed state, crying ::: angry, emotional, concern for him, looked after) ::: grabbed by the collar, pushed up against a wall ::: in shock, emotional

1.13 : (flashbacks: dying in the hospital, oxygen mask, concern for him, “He can’t hold on”), in shock, emotional, crying, (flashbacks: in the hospital, asleep, nose cannula, woke up, weak, heavily lidded eyes), crying ::: crying, guilty ::: in a depressed state, crying ::: drunk, in a depressed state, grabbed by the jacket, manhandled, fought, manhandled, punched, kicked, thrown to the ground, beaten (allowing it), crying ::: bruised face, emotional ::: crying, (flashbacks: crying, angry) ::: scolded, looked after, emotional

1.14 : strangled, held over a ledge, struggling, grabbed, thrown to the ground, fought, restrained, beaten, angry, restrained, beaten, bloody mouth, laying in the ground in pain ::: using himself as a human shield ::: emotional, near tears

———+———

MORE WHUMP LISTS >>> {x}

[fleur-a-whump]

Overloaded (#2)

late night sparks

guys guess what!! little villain guy has a name!! it’s Jasper and we love him dearly. also team leader’s got a name too, it’s Miguel, but we don’t really care about him because he’s a bitch. plus new character reveal: Chase, a teammate. he is also, unsurprisingly, a bitch.

Content: ex-villain whumpee, hero/leader whumper, manipulative whumper, collars, electrocution (for realsies this time), implied referenced abuse of a minor, referenced bullying, bad team dynamics, adult language

in which Miguel gets worse. takes place probably a few months after "preventative measures"

previous | masterlist | next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jasper's back was sore. And his arms. And his everything.

He sat kneeling on the kitchen floor, determinately ignoring the pins and needles that pricked at his calves. He couldn't stop, couldn't take a break till the floor was spotless. Chase had once again threatened some mixture of violence and telling on him to Miguel for insubordination if he didn't do the man's chores. 

Big man-child, Jasper thought bitterly.

So, here he was, scrubbing well past midnight, after having spent the day straining his powers in the lab and doing his own chores. 

Jasper sat back to indulge a long, dramatic yawn. He nearly jumps out of his skin when an impatient ahem cuts through the previously dead silent kitchen. His bleary eyes take several long moments to focus on Miguel, leaning against the doorway. The hero would look casual if it weren’t for the peeved look on his face. Jasper’s stomach does a somersault.

Sheepish, Jasper drawls, “Heyyy, Miguel…”

Miguel is not amused. “What the fuck are you doing out here,” he snaps.

Jasper squeezes his hands into fists to quell the tremors. He stutters, “J-just cleaning.”

The villain can hardly finish the statement before the unsettling and painful electricity of the collar arcs through him. His muscles seize and ache and burn and it feels like death and he can't breathe—

Just as quickly as it began, the electricity stops. He gasps and collapses to the side, just barely able to catch himself on his forearm. Small, choked-off whimpers escape him as he tries to catch his breath and keep his volume to a minimum. His father never liked to hear him whine.

Jasper continues to shudder as his powers go haywire. The typically comforting restless skittering of his own electricity under his skin now burns as it travels across the newly fried neurons. More than that, it feels wrong for such a core part of his being to cause him pain. The feeling is everywhere, from the tip of his nose to his toes, and it is everything. Little sparks and crackles of energy fly from his shaking hands as it becomes too painful to completely contain his powers. Simply existing—not to mention actually using his powers—will be painful while his body tries to recover from the unnaturally strong current, engineered just for him.

As his body gradually backs down from its state of panic, ire at the punishment surges within him. The hero didn’t even let him explain. It was Chase who ordered him to do his chores; ordered him to not leave this room until it was spotless.

“I was just following orders!” he bursts.

Oh shit.

A quick glance at Miguel and his quirked eyebrow lets him know just how badly he just fucked up. And even if it didn't, the second burst of electricity from the collar definitely spells it out for him.

A guttural groan escapes his clenched teeth as he feels the current worm its way through his neurons, igniting them. The burning, all-encompassing pain is all he knows. Spots cloud his vision. Seconds feel like minutes, feel like hours, feel like eternity, until he wonders if that's all he'll ever feel. Nothing but the gut-wrenching pain of his greatest gift, so deeply intertwined with his being, turned against him and ripping him apart from the inside out. 

And then, it stops.

Jasper’s body fully gives out this time, his chin bouncing off the tile and teeth clacking painfully. He's a pitiful mess of useless limbs. His muscles feel like jelly and yet are still forced to endure the waves of aftershock, twitching and spasming irregularly. Each movement is agony.

He gulps oxygen, having still been out of breath from the first shock. He can hardly hear his own moans and whimpers bouncing around the kitchen with each breath over the ringing in his ears, and he has zero energy to control them this time.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he can't help the delayed but violent flinch that ripples through him. But the hand is soft, gentle, as it pulls him to lie on his back. It guides his hand to rest on someone's chest, to follow as it rises and falls rhythmically. He latches onto it, using it as a guide to breathe and bring himself back to reality. Another hand gently cards through his loose curls as he works to steady his breathing and his vision clears. If he eagerly leans into the gentle touch, well, he can blame it on his delirious state.

When Miguel's face finally comes into focus above him, a shiver runs through him, and he averts his gaze. He'll blame that on his still-spasming muscles.

Miguel’s soft voice calls for his attention again. He focuses back on his leader’s face, haloed above him by the bright kitchen lights.

“There you are. You're alright, it's okay,” he soothes.

The hero lets Jasper relish the contact a moment longer before gently returning his hand to his own chest.

Jasper swallows the whimper at the loss.

Miguel lets out a long-suffering sigh. It gives Jasper whiplash how suddenly the familiar weight of anxiety settles back in his chest.

“I don't like doing that, man. You know better than to be in the common areas after your curfew, and you definitely know better than to talk back, bud. I don't wanna have to punish you, but the rules are rules for a reason. Yeah, they're to protect the team, but they're also to protect you. What if you'd had another episode with your powers?”

He decidedly doesn’t think about the ‘episodes’ Miguel is referring to. Still, the disappointment in his savior's voice hurt almost as much as the electricity. His eyes flood with tears as guilt settles like a rock in his stomach. The hero was right. He knew the rules, and he agreed to them. Anything to stay. Anything to be good.

His voice breaks, small and shaky, as he says, “I-I'm really s-sorry, Mig-guel.”

The villain’s not one hundred percent sure what exactly he's sorry for, but, fuck, is he sorry.

“Okay, that's alright, don't cry. I think you've learned your lesson. You're fine.” 

The words should be comforting. The edge to his tone, however, is not. Jasper blinks hard to clear the tears, not wanting to annoy him. That was another thing his father didn't like.

Miguel brings him back to the present, asking, “Why are you cleaning the floor anyways? That's not on your list for this week.”

Jasper swallows hard past the lump still in his throat. He’s afraid of what Chase will do to him if he tells Miguel and Miguel decides he doesn’t like that. However, he’s more “Chase s-said I should be busy all the t-time to k-keep me out of trouble…”

Miguel hums in thought, ever casual as Jasper trembles on the floor below of him. 

“I actually like that idea. We wouldn't want you getting bored. You'd be helping the team out a lot too, taking some work off our plates so we can train more. I'll work on the new chore schedule in the morning.”

Jasper bit his lip. He could read between the lines.

“A-and, my training?”

“We can reduce it some,” Miguel says, thoughtful. “I know you've been struggling to keep up.”

He makes it sound like a kindness, voice full of sympathy. No matter how gentle the tone, Jasper has to blink the tears from his eyes again. He knew he wasn't the strongest or the most capable, but that was the point of training. He'd never be good enough to redeem himself without the chance to train.

Miguel sighs again and stands. He suddenly reaches towards him. Jasper has to carefully control the urge to flinch, not knowing what to expect from the movement. He never knows what to expect.

Miguel simply holds it out towards him, however, expectantly. It takes Jasper a moment to realize he's trying to help him up. He takes the hand after that moment's hesitation and wavers on unsteady feet as the blood finally rushes back into his legs. He blinks spots from his vision, gripping Miguel for dear life until he's sure he's not going to pass out.

The hero gives him an easy smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder just a bit too hard. He nudges him in the direction of the bedrooms.

“You look tired, man. I think it's time for bed,” he all but coos.

It sounds like a caring gesture, or at the very least a joke. Jasper knows it's an order.

He dutifully mumbles, “Goodnight,” before making his way to the door slowly. He knows he probably looks like a newborn fawn as his jittery body tries to carry him to his bed.

“And Jasper?”

A slight jolt of anxiety stops him as he turns back to his leader.

“If I catch you out past curfew again, we're going to have an issue worth more than a little jolt, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the villain says, too tired to bite back the honorific once totally engrained in him.

He doesn't notice the way Miguel preens at the submission.

“Attaboy, Jasper. Goodnight.”

The praise rings hollow after the night's events, but as he makes his way back to his room, dead on his feet, he allows the praise to warm him. 

He'll take what he can get.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

jasper doesn't deserve this :( but he will get more >:)

tags!! lmk if you wanna be added (or removed, I added some extra people)!!

@whumpsday

@sergeant-jasper (yo i didn't even realize lol)

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@crystalrose141

@aloafofbreadwithanxiety

@paingoes

@elizaisnotokay

@quaggasus

[whumpytales]

WHUMPY PROMPTS #1!

(Warning:Conditioning,Mentions of Abuse, Wounds and Bruises.)

Whumpee and Caretaker are siblings. Caretaker was the older, stoic, responsible one. While Whumpee, the youngest....was the definition of rebellion and wildlife.

The two have had a falling out in a while. But their relationship worsens when Whumper, Whumpee's new lover, comes into the picture. A person that Whumpee met online, mostly charming at first glance, but also someone very persuasive, if not to say, manipulative. Whumper's influence affects Whumpee immensely, their bad attitude becoming worse than before.

The fighting between Caretaker and Whumpee becomes so much, that Caretaker decides to kick Whumpee out.

"I'm not a fucking babysitter, Whumpee! You're already grown up!" Caretaker sneered. "So, if you're gonna be an asshole be an asshole to Whumper! See if they can Put up with your nonsense and childishness!!"

"Maybe I will!" Whumpee called out "And maybe that way, you'll never have to see me again!"

"GOOD, I HOPE SO! NOW LEAVE!!"

"FINE!!"

That was the last conversation they had.

Time passes. It's been months since Caretaker has last seen their little sibling, guilt and regret beginning to settle in. Maybe they shouldn't be so rough with Whumpee... they are their little sibling after all, Caretaker should help and support them, not push them away.

So, Caretake goes to Whumper's house...to see their little sibling again.

But when the doors open, Caretaker's eyes widened as Whumpee was... unrecognisable. Their long and silky hair cut off to their shoulder, their eyes wide and scared...bruises and cuts on their arms and, the worst of all, Whumpee's independent and carefree personality making a complete 180°. Now quiet and Clingy. Almost as if they were a maid for Whumper, instead of a lover...

"Oh, god, Whumpee..." Caretaker gasped, his hand covering his mouth "What have they done to you??"

"...They made me useful...."

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 16

Humiliation / dehumanization / conditioning

Continuation of Day 15

Self-harm, abusive relationship, unhealthy/toxic behavior, nsfwhump, dubcon, shaming of sex work, domestic violence, drugs mention

(Lmk if I'm missing a tag!!)

°

Whumpee knocked on Whumper's door, trying to dry his tears as he waited. Maybe Whumper would be having a good day. Maybe he would comfort Whumpee.

The door opened, and Whumper looked down at Whumpee for a moment. He scoffed and signaled him in, looking rather amused.

"You look like hell," Whumper murmured, shutting the door as Whumpee made his way to the couch. "Couldn't at least pretty yourself up before coming to see me? And here I was thinking you cared."

Whumper's words bit into Whumpee, and he averted his eyes. "I- I'm not doing good right now, I kind of had a breakdown earlier, and-"

"Over what? What in your pampered little life has gotten you so worked up that you did all that, hm? Run out of cigarettes again?"

Whumpee squeezed his thumb. "Whumper, you know I've been clean six months."

"Oh? So what have you taken up instead, hm? Smoking weed now? Maybe you're selling your body to get your rocks off, huh?"

Whumpee subconsciously grabbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Whumper, I'm not —"

"Ohhh, don't tell me," Whumper broke out in laughter, grabbing Whumpee's arm. "You're cutting? Really? What are you, a thirteen year-old girl?" He rolled the sleeve back, revealing the barely-scabbing cuts. He ran a finger over them, looking smug. "Christ, what a charity case you are."

"Listen, I–"

"Pfft, that's just pathetic. God, I don't know why I bother wasting time on you." Whumper rolled his eyes, reaching to pull off Whumpee's shirt. "At least you're a good fuck, huh?"

"Can you stop interrupting me?" Whumpee bit back, getting frustrated.

"Oh, could you just shut the fuck up? Jesus Christ." Whumper slipped his t-shirt off, grabbing Whumpee and pulling him to the bedroom. "All you do is talk."

Whumpee bit down on his lip, following Whumper into the bedroom. He sat back on the bed, looking up at Whumper. At least the sex was usually good.

Whumper pulled Whumpee's pants off, looking down at his thighs. "Seriously? Here too?" He mocked Whumpee's cuts, pushing his legs apart as he took his own pants off.

Whumpee said nothing, shame burning his face. He fought back tears, watching Whumper approach.

The taller man reached down and kissed Whumpee in his rough, dominant way. His hand threaded into Whumpee's hair, tugging him into place as Whumper's tongue dominated his mouth.

Whumpee sunk into the kiss, relaxing and wrapping his arms around Whumper's shoulders. He was lowered onto his back as Whumper straddled his hips, pinching at his injured thighs.

Whumpee squirmed, wincing. "S- stop that, it hurts..."

"Well, you obviously like pain if you're willing to do this to yourself."

"I don't like it!"

"Tell me you do." Whumper pushed into Whumpee, stretching him out.

Whumpee cried out, biting his lip, "I don't!"

Whumper smacked Whumpee across the face. "Tell me you do, or I'll hit you harder."

Whumpee pressed his face into Whumper's shoulder, trying to cover up his tears. He clung to Whumper, losing himself in the rhythm of his thrusts. "I like it," he murmured against the man's sweaty neck.

Whumper pulled out his phone, the flash shining in Whumpee's eyes.

"Say it again."

"Whumper—?"

"Again."

"...I like it."

"Good boy," Whumper purred. "I'll save that for later, baby."

Baby.

Whumpee held onto the petname for the rest of the night, glad to have pleased Whumper.

[dinkflocculent]

Whumpee has pretty horns; caretaker loved them. They loved them to get touched and petted by caretaker. It felt so well and comforting.

But when they are captured by whumper, they also love whumpee’s horns. So much so that they wanted it to be displayed, so they cut them off. They’re put on the wall as whumper’s prize, right infront of whumpee’s cell to mock them.

When they are rescued, whumpee’s horns eventually grew back, but they beg and fight to not have a finger in contact with them. Not even caretaker. Whumpee didn’t want anyone to look at the horns or even mention them. They wish they never had them in the first place.

Because every time their horn is touched, mentioned, or looked at, whumpee can just imagine the horrible pain they faced as whumper sliced it off with that chainsaw that pierced their ears.