#mwmday25

[serickswrites]

Loved the Rain

Warnings: captivity, torture, blood, wounds, mcd, hurt/no comfort, caretaker and whumpee

"I always loved the rain," Caretaker murmured as they stroked Whumpee's hair. Through the thick stone walls of the dungeon, they could hear the pitter patter of the falling rain. "It always relaxed me so much. Just to sit and listen to the rain," they said as they continued to stroke Whumpee's filthy, matted hair.

"You loved the rain, too," they whispered as the tears they had been trying to hold back finally came. The tears tracked down their cheeks and dripped onto Whumpee's upturned face.

"You would really like this rain, love," Caretaker sobbed as wiped their tears, trying not to think about the blood that coated their hands.

They hadn't bothered to close Whumpee's eyes yet. They couldn't bear it. But they also couldn't bear to stare down into the lifeless eyes either. And so they stared out into the dingy, damp dungeon as they stroked Whumpee's hair.

Whumpee had bled out in their arms hours ago. Whumper had spent days torturing Whumpee only to end it suddenly by stabbing Whumpee in the chest and throwing them to Caretaker.

The sound of Whumpee's choking breaths fading as they struggled to breathe around the blood filling their mouth would forever echo in Caretaker's ears. The light fading in Whumpee's eyes would forever haunt Caretaker's dreams.

It was all more than Caretaker could bear. And so they sat, Whumpee sprawled across their lap, as they listened to the rain and stroked Whumpee's hair. "I used to love the rain."

[shes-some-other-where]

“I’ve always loved the rain.”

Contains: mention of healing injury

“Come outside.”

She stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, gazing at a crepuscular sky. The fugitive blinked, puzzled by the invitation: glittering diamond-drops of water peppered her face.

“But it’s raining,” he said stupidly.

“Yes. Don’t you want to feel it?” She tilted her face upward. Without waiting for him to acquiesce, she ascended the stairs.

He followed, moving slowly, wincing as each step tugged at the healing wound on his back.

“I’ve always loved the rain.” Her graceful hands rested upon her stomach. “Even when times are hard, it reminds me of how beautiful life can be.”

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[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day Twenty Five

“It takes two to tango”

Hot Coffee | Doubt | In Line

The Merry Whump of May Masterlist

Cw: pet whump, past abuse, conditioning, not really hurt, not really comfort, normalized dehumanization, collar/restraints

Whumper had never really wanted a pet.

They had never seen the need, really. Why it would be so intriguing for someone to spend a ludicrous amount of money to do something you could pay anyone else to do for a mere fraction of the price. If you needed your house cleaned, they had always thought just hire a damn service. There’s no need to spend tens of thousands of dollars on some dimwit who had been abused to the point that they couldn’t function outside of their designated “use”.

It was a moronic idea, they thought. though they could see some benefits, the taxes heavily outweighed any good that could come from it. Healthcare bills, training, not to mention all of the supplies they needed. Food, clothes, toiletries, if Whumper had wanted to deal with all that crap, they would’ve gotten a damn roommate. At least then they’d have help with the bills. Water, electricity, heat, none of that shit was cheap.

They wouldn’t say they were anywhere near tight on money. Actually, they were pretty well off, all things considered. Working as a manager for some utility company, and the inheritance from their parents, they had quite a nice amount tucked away in their bank account. Enough to afford themself a nice house in a quiet neighborhood, a smooth running car, even a boat which they took to the lake every few weekends. But still, they didn’t like spending unnecessary funds. Why would they spend it on whatever useless clutter when it could be doubling itself in interest in a savings account.

They weren’t a minimalist, though. They lived comfortably. Curtains around the windows, blankets across the back of the couch, little personal touches around their home just enough to make it look homey.

And now, a small person huddled in their living room corner, kneeling, watching them with wide eyes.

They didn’t recall entering any so-called raffle. Ot had been one of those things, where the cashier at some supermarket asks if you would like to donate your change to charity or some shit. “Would you like to donate an extra ten dollars to help support the local Shelter and be entered into a drawing for a free companion?” Whumper never said yes to that kind of stuff, but apparently that one day, four months ago or something, they had. Scrounging back through their receipts and bank notices, they confirmed it was true.

Why the fuck would they do that?

A free pet, all supplies included—that was a load of bullshit. All supplies seemed to include a cheap, uncomfortable looking collar, made out of a material that looked almost plastic, a leash to pair with it, a week’s worth of whatever nutrient-heavy crap that Whumper wouldn’t even feed to a dog, a wire crate that wasn’t big enough to fit a regular sized person, but with the pet’s frail stature they managed to squeeze in, and a small, handheld stun gun like the one someone might carry on a keychain when they go out at night.

And of course, once they had arrived at the damned shelter, which had the same feel as one of those department pet stores, fluorescent lights reflecting off all of the cheap, artificially colored merchandise. Despite how they decorated, trying to incorporate colors and designs throughout, it was still insanely depressing.

Some pets had been kept out front, the pretty, showcase ones who were held at a price so ludicrous no one in their right mind would ever pay for, some curled in wider cages sleeping, others simply sitting around the floor. One was even helping a cashier bag stuff.

Ten dollars for a damn raffle ticket, then a couple hundred more spent on adequate supplies. They weren’t a monster, pet or not, Whumper wasn’t going to force them to sleep on that cold wire. They bought a nice enough pet bed, the cheapest they could find without it looking like it would fall apart if you tugged at the seams. It was still expensive.

Thankfully, the shelter had reimbursed the price of what they didn’t take. The small wire cage, worth maybe thirty-five, they were able to trade in for a larger, slightly more comfortable looking one worth sixty five, and only pay the difference of thirty. They had gotten a few more items there, what the manager had insisted they would need. A shock collar paired with a remote, a subtle blue nylon strap restraints with clasps and buckles for easy adjusting, a few sets of the basic grey scrub-like clothes the pets commonly wore—although they were available in a variety of other colors, grey was the cheapest—and a few other necessities.

Whumper wasn’t sure what they had been expecting when it came to terms of the pet itself, but it was not like anything they could’ve thought of.

They were scrawny and fragile, nothing like the pets kept out front. They looked like a strong gust of wind could knock them over completely. Like they hadn’t eaten, or been outside, or had a proper shower in months. They were clean enough, Whumper supposed, but glancing down at them. They weren’t obviously dirty, but over the worn material of their shorts and shirt, the way their hair hung limp, it was clear they needed a nice long bath. And a meal.

A domestic, the manager had said they were. Trained for basic maintenance tasks. Chores and yard work, said they were trustworthy and dependable. The manager had said they were one of the best trained there, which Whumper supposed they could see. The way they sat, even though they shrunk back a bit, they held their back straight and their chin tipped down, palms facing up resting above their knees, though their hands were trembling.

Whumper didn’t see too many injuries. Bruises on their knees, fainter ones along their wrists, a yellowing purple tint beneath their collar, the skin red from where the uncomfortable material irritated it. They had a few scars, not many at all, a faint one across their thigh and another wrapping around their upper arm, just above their elbow. On the inside of their left wrist, Whumper could see the barcode tattoo, freshly inked over and standing out contrastingly against the skin. But where their shirt collar sagged, dipping a bit below their collarbones, Whumper could see the edge of a brand, ugly patches of skin standing out against the untouched.

Secondhand, clearly.

“Come here,” Whumper finally said, after a few long moments of simply looking down at them. The pet’s eyes flicked up to theirs, and they didn’t hesitate to shuffle forwards on their knees, the distance not enough to prompt them to stand up and walk over, but enough for it to take them a moment before they stopped maybe a foot and a half away from Whumper, sinking back to sit on their heels.

It was hard for Whumper to tell what they were looking at. Whether the emotion in the pet’s eyes was fear or anticipation or something else. Whether the way they say back so tense was from the months, maybe years of training or because they were hyper aware of their body, vowing not to make any mistakes.

Whumper crouched in front of them, weight resting in their toes as they reached their hands over to the pet’s neck. The pet, to their credit, didn’t flinch like Whumper was half expecting them to, but they tensed, clear anticipation of something unpleasant to follow.

Whumper twisted the collar so the buckle was in front, and with a few easy movements they pulled it away, frowning at the texture, and the marks left along the pet’s neck.

“I’ll take you out to pick a new one tomorrow,” Whumper stood back up, tossing the collar over to the couch. “Something more comfortable.”

“Get up, I’ll show you to the bathroom. Take a long shower and clean yourself up. Then you can help me make dinner.”

Whumper gave a short motion with their hand, stepping back, allowing the pet room to rise shakily to their feet.

They never wanted a pet, but they supposed, all considered, that having someone else in the house wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

And they really hated doing the dishes.

————————————————

Zero plot but whatever

@themerrywhumpofmay

[autobot2001]

Worried Over a Cold

@mediwhumpmay: shaking @themerrywhumpofmay: hot coffee, doubt

Allergies are annoying, especially when Jamie isn't sure if her allergies are acting up or she's getting sick. Even as she feels cold drinking hot coffee, she questions if she's getting sick. Even if this is allergies, I'll feel like crap by the afternoon. Jamie thinks.   She chooses to go down to the training room as planned.

Lily and Sunstreaker don't notice anything different during the forty-minute workout, and a shower does help Jamie. She believes her issue was allergies, and the shower helped. The three go to their art room until lunch.

After lunch, Jamie needs to lie down. "I know her computer is in their room, but she didn't look good during lunch," Lily whispers. "Crosshairs and Drift must have also noticed. It could be allergies." Both do worry if it's not allergies. They don't want to wait five hours to see if Jamie is ok, but that's what they decide.

Drift walks into the room at four-thirty. He thought Jamie didn't look good at lunch, and seeing her already asleep confirms this. He and Crosshairs thought Jamie was dealing with allergies, but not bad enough to result in going to bed. Drift feels bad feeling Jamie's warm forehead. Crosshairs sees Drift is displeased. "She's sick," Drift sighs, "and I thought it was allergies." Crosshairs feels how warm Jamie is. He gets the digital thermometer from a box of medical supplies in his closet. Hating the box even exists rather than a drawer of a few medical items in a bathroom drawer. "101°," Crosshairs reads, "add she did a workout today. Definitely made herself feel like scrap with this cold." The two mechs are still trying to figure out what to do about dinner since it's too late to make soup, and Jamie will likely not want to go to the cafeteria. They don't want to wake her but want her to eat dinner. They don't have to wait long for Jamie to wake up. She tiredly agrees to get dinner. Jamie ignores how she feels as she sits up.

By the time the three return to the room, Jamie is ready for bed, even though it's only six. Knowing it's too early to sleep, Jamie lies on Drift's lap as the three watches TV. The two mechs hope this cold won't be bad.

Drift wakes up at two in the morning, worried about Jamie shaking. He turns on the lamp, hoping Crosshairs doesn't wake up, and sees her hugging herself. He turns off the lamp and moves Jamie closer to him, hoping to help her get warm and worried about her fever.

"She's not getting out of bed today," Crosshairs sighs, reading Jamie's temperature has risen. The two know one degree is still not great, even if it's not an issue that requires one of the medics to examine Jamie. Drift hates adding how Jamie was shivering overnight. The two aren't worried Jamie has the flu, and they hate seeing her sick as much as they hate her poor mental health. The two didn't think Lily and the terror twins would come by. The three also not liking Jamie is sick. Even though the Autobot knows what an Earth cold is. "Guys, a cold doesn't cause a flare-up if that's what you're worried about," Drift assures them, "she'll likely not want to get out of bed for a few days." The three walk down the hall. Crosshairs and Drift get ready for the day while waiting for Jamie to wake up. Crosshairs decides he'll get breakfast for the two and something that both mechs hope Jamie will eat.

Crosshairs figures toast is all Jamie will eat — if she'll eat the toast. He knows she'll drink hot tea. "Can we stay in your room and watch TV?" Lily asks with Sideswipe behind her. "No, Jamie will likely sleep most of the day." They should know this. Why do they want to stay in our room? Crosshairs wonders.

Drift is a little concerned about Lily and Sideswipe's request. He and Crosshairs suspect the terror twins, and Lily will come by soon to see how Jamie is doing. As Crosshairs thought, Jamie wants hot tea but doesn't want to eat when she wakes up. Drift goes to the kitchen to make soup. Hoping Jamie will want to eat when it's done. Jamie gets out of bed to lie on the couch and watch TV. Crosshairs lies on his bed, deciding to check on Jamie in an hour.

Like yesterday, Jamie is cold even while drinking something hot. She regrets not bringing the blanket from the bed but already feels like crap when she sits up. The short walk to the bed is impossible. Crosshairs figured Jamie would be cold and happy he didn't wait an hour to check on her. He gives her cold medicine, hoping she'll want to eat when the soup is done. Within a half-hour, Jamie is asleep. Sunstreaker is texting, wanting to know how Jamie is doing. "And he thinks Drift worries too much," Crosshairs smiles as he texts Sunstreaker. Should we worry about how worried the three are over Jamie being sick with a cold? Crosshairs questions.

Jamie is awake in time for lunch, feels like eating, and wants to go to the cafeteria. The two mechs let her go downstairs, and they know the terror twins and Lily will be happy to see her.

The terror twins and Lily are happy to see Jamie and that she's eating, but they know she had cold medicine. They know Jamie could get worse before she gets better, and they might not see her in the cafeteria until she's well. "This is likely the routine until she's well," Drift tells them, "I hope we can give her medicine so she'll come to the cafeteria for dinner. Lunch might be impossible depending on when she wakes up and takes medicine."

Drift is right, the routine is the two mechs and Jamie would be at the cafeteria for dinner, but Jamie only feels like eating dinner. This worries the twins and Lily even though Crosshairs and Drift aren't worried. Ratchet finds out and looks at Jamie with the three in the room. "It is a cold," Ratchet confirms, "if you three are worried about this, then I'm concerned." If Jamie's guardians aren't worried, the twins should know she's fine. Ratchet thinks as he leaves the room. "You know Drift would be a wreck if Jamie was in worse condition," Crosshairs whispers to the twins and Lily, "even if we can care for her. She'll be better in a few days."

The routine continues for two days before Jamie starts feeling better and wanting to eat more. Within another three days, Jamie is over the cold. She doesn't say anything about the twins and Lily being over-worried about her but worries about them when she suffers a flare-up, even if it's mild and infrequent.

[shes-some-other-where]

“Is that wise?”

Prompt: Practical

Contains: angst

“You’re leaving, then.”

He stood, panting, hands pressed into the weathered wood of the fence bordering the cottage. The cottage, he now saw, beneath which he’d been recuperating for nearly three days.

“Yes.” Anxious sweat dripped down his back. Why? He couldn’t have said.

She made no move to come closer, merely asking, “Is that wise? Practical?”

Wise? Wise didn’t matter. He couldn’t remain, couldn’t rely on borrowing kindness from what had to be a rapidly draining well.

“There’s no rush,” she said. “My brother’s gone for nearly a month. Hunting. For the winter.”

Gruffly, he said, “Not the point.”

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All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[shes-some-other-where]

“I’ll always love the rain.”

Prompt: “I've always loved the rain.”

Contains: angst, chains, exposure (sort of), caught in the rain (...by choice)

The convicts fought for shelter, the violent clanking of their chains lost to the pattering rain. Some shoves and snarls broke over the noise, but most men huddled together, sharing the paltry space beneath an overhanging cliff.

The prisoner stayed where he was, watching the soaked dregs of their fire sputter and hiss with each raindrop until not even smoke survived.

“You not goin’?” This straggler hadn’t moved fast enough, nursing a busted ankle, and he, too, sat sopping wet in the storm.

“No,” said the prisoner, his heart aching. “I don’t mind.” He swallowed. “I’ll always love the rain.”

suggested reading order | MWM event masterlist

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All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.