#prior whumpee

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee and Caretaker were finally reunited after years since Whumpee disappeared.

But... the reunion wasn't happy. Whumpee wasn't themself, and their eyes were filled with hatred and murderous intent. They raised their weapon, ready to strike down Caretaker that they once called friend.

Whumpee had changed for the worse; in the years during their disappearance, they became a killer/assassin.

And their next target was Caretaker.

[emcscared-whumps]

WiJ 2023 - 24: Earth (1/10)

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As I mentioned, these are basically snapshots of the first draft, so forgive me for being a little messy and unpolished ^-^'

Can't edit what isn't written after all ;)

Anyways, this is the first segment I actually wrote, so, have fun future me lmao

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CONTENT and WARNINGS: Nonhuman whumpee, collapse and fainting, Cole getting squicked out by gills

wc: ~1k

“Thank you for meeting me,” Cole said, turning up his collar against a chilly bluster and burrowing further into his scarf. All he could think of was how silly he must’ve looked, all balled up because of a little breeze. “I know it’s not easy for you to come so far, but I thought you could... do with a break. You seemed quite stressed when I saw you last,” he added. Somehow, the shadows under those tired blue eyes seemed deeper than they were when he’d seen him last, as if he’d been unable to bask.

Unbothered by the sudden drop in temperature, Pete hummed a plain response. It was more of an acknowledgement than anything, and not a talkative one. Slightly prickly, even.

Cole tried to meet Pete’s eyes to gauge what the young man was thinking as they slowly walked through the city, but his downcast gaze never stayed still; when his eyes weren’t clearly tracking the people exiting various shops, they flitted over openings and gaps, puddles, and over his shoulders.

Cole hesitated before speaking again, “Let’s get going before the weather turns, maybe we can find something to eat, my shout.”

Pete hummed again.

Ensuring his concerned gaze didn’t linger and give him away, Cole fell into step behind Pete, matching his pace but allowing him to lead, ensuring that he watched Pete’s back more than he accommodated him; he knew how quickly the young belunae’s mood could turn when he thought he was being coddled, or hadn’t the patience to ignore it.

Cole understood that feeling far too well; adjusting to having someone look out for him after years of isolation was difficult at best, and at worst... it could feel suffocating and infantilising, and when that happened, how easy it was to keep those walls built high.

An ache throbbed in Cole’s heart.

Pete is so close to having someone, he thought, that nice friend of his, Timmothey Paige. He’s a good kid, he tries to be there as much as he can, he’s trying a lot harder than anyone else, but Pete needs to open up, he can’t keep isolating himself.

Cole’s thoughts wandered from there as he took in the details of their surrounds; Wasn’t he the one who offered to accompany Pete each moon...? Was he there the last moon?

Before Cole could react, Pete suddenly stumbled forward. His boot caught on an uprooted paver, and when as he tried to steady himself, his cane slipped from under him, and his leg gave way before Cole could catch him.

“Shit—!" Cole exclaimed, kneeling and offering his arm to Pete who laid braced on the ground, biting back cries with pained gasps. “Are you hurt?”

Pete’s eyes cracked open and fixed Cole with a cold, hostile glare, “Of—of c-course,” he ground out, refusing his help, “but n-not—not worse. I’m f-f-fine.”

He stood, a pang of guilt settling in his stomach. He knew better than to badger, but he still felt awful for making the Pete slowly regain his footing himself. To make matters worse, a car flew by, ignorant of the dip where the previous night’s rain had been pooling, splashing everything in its wake, including Pete, who still knelt on the ground.

Shit!

Pete’s eyes widened and his lips parted breathlessly.

As much as he tried to hide it, Cole knew he couldn’t breathe and urgently needed privacy to recover, but when he tried to offer his arm again for Pete to lean on, Pete took it to haul himself to his feet and clumsily pull away, only to hit a wall and slide until his body leaned against a decorative pillar.

“Hey, hey, let me help,” Cole said, moving to subtly block any prying eyes.

Pete’s chest heaved but moved no air, and the hostility in his eyes morphed into fear. He shook his head, unable to voice the words he mouthed; don’t want—!

“Pete. Your scarf is drenched. You need to get it off right now if you don’t want to shift,” Cole murmured urgently. “You can have mine, just let me help, please.”

Finally, even as his eyes started drooping, the young man saw sense and with a small nod, allowed Cole to work quickly, unravelling the knots of both scarves as he gulped air down and fruitlessly forced it through his gills once they were free from the weight of the completely drenched wool.

It was a truly unnerving sight. Cole dragged his gaze away, but even as he focused on gently re-wrapping his own warm, dry scarf around Pete’s neck, the bright red of his gills’ filaments were never out of sight.

A short, sickening gasp followed by quick, shallow coughs brought Cole back to his senses.

Pete tried to position himself to stand, still gulping the air.

“Hey—Pete please wait, damnit,” Cole started, but Pete slumped into Cole’s chest and his eyes fell shut; his initial hesitancy finally took its toll.

Cole, unprepared for the sudden weight managed to wrap a protective arm around Pete’s limp body to stop him from falling, and catch himself before he hit the ground too.

Powers— Cole panicked.

A second ticked by, and still no breath.

Shit—

Another—

Shallow rasps sounded, and short coughs wracked Pete’s frail body.

Relief flooded Cole’s body; Pete was breathing again, he was still alive. The process was frightening to witness, and Cole didn’t want to know how terrifying it would be to suffer it regularly.

Not being able to breathe was—

No.

 Cole shut that memory down the instant it surfaced.

Pete groaned weakly and coughed, but made no move to push Cole away.

Taken aback but unwilling to disturb the strange peace, Cole swallowed and kept perfectly still, as if a shy kitten had rested its head on his hand.

“We’d better find some place to rest,” he murmured.

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Taglist:

@a-crumb-of-whump

@dang-i-like-whump

@gem2117

@nowjustanothermain2notjudge

@painful-pooch

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-cravings

@whumplovers-collaborate

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

@willowtreewhump

If you would like to be added or removed, please let me know <3 More info [here]

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Whumpee refusing to go to the hospital though its increasingly clear they might no longer have a choice. Maybe it's a climbing fever, worsening breathing, a lapse in consciousness, etc. - whumpee's condition is getting dire and caretaker has tried everything. They're both getting scared...

whumpee lies motionless in the bed, breathing shallow and slow. their cheeks are flushed with fever, but the rest of their skin is sallow and pale like caretaker's never seen before.

"whumpee?" caretaker calls gently, stroking their cheek with the pad of a thumb. "sweetheart, can you wake up for me a moment?"

it takes a little longer than expected, but eventually whumpee's eyes slide open half mast. they're dulled with fever. consciousness barely even there.

"there you are." caretaker greets, trying to hide the wobble in their voice. "i'm... i'm worried about you, sweetheart. i think it's time to get you to the hospital."

in the hours and days prior, whumpee met this suggestion with groans and eyerolls and claims that everything is fine. now, though, whumpee only swallows, throat bobbing with nausea, and replies,

"n-no ho-hospitals."

caretaker's heart sinks, the back of their hand drifting from pressing against whumpee's cheeks to pressing against their forehead. "you're... you're really sick, whumpee, i... i don't know what to do."

"s-sorry."

the murmur is so weak it's barely audible, and then whumpee is closing their eyes again, too exhausted apparently to continue in the waking world. caretaker retrieves the thermometer from the bedside table, gently opening whumpee's mouth and slipping it under their tongue.

beep beep beep.

when they retrieve the little device and turn it over to look at the numbers, their stomach lurches.

104.7

"whumpee? sweetheart?"

this time, whumpee doesn't stir. caretaker taps their cheek a couple of times, desperation rising, but still there's nothing. they're unreachable. the illness has progressed too far now.

caretaker shakily retrieves their phone from their pocket with one hand, the other shakily stroking whumpee's hair.

"I'm so sorry, darling. I'm sorry.

but you're too sick. we need help."

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Do you have any extra prompts/perspective for shutdown trauma responses? So far I have a few related to freeze but I know they’re different in their own ways (I have some unrelated to freeze too, I just rather ask a professional in case there’s more)

disclaimer that while I have written about the topic in my own fics before, I only consider myself a fanfic writer who’s done some research, not a professional, and these are supposed to be prompts for writers to use and tweak however they see fits for their fanfics / original works for entertainment purposes. please don’t treat these following prompts as a 100% accurate psychological information that can be applied in real life situations without doing your own research and consulting with a licensed professional.

trigger warnings: PTSD, depression, implied suicide, eating disorder

whumpee not being able to feel the pain that should have been haunting them, be it physical or mental. and that is not a good thing, because they’re not processing what happened, and they can’t heal as long as they cannot process or acknowledge what happened to them.

numb, however, is all whumpee can feel. and the numbness is so much worse and more dangerous than pain.

depression, prolonged stress, anxiety and procrastination are also possibilities. if whumpee only feels numb all the time, there’re chances of them developing other mental disorders that may cause them to believe that their entire life is now without any purpose.

whumpee feeling hopeless and wanting to give up all the time. any personal interest they had prior to the traumatic incident is now gone.

loss of appetite. an eating disorder where food tastes like ashes, and panic sends them into having an episode whenever caretaker tries making them eat — because it feels like someone was forcing ashes down their throat and they could not breathe. their body would not accept the food, and their gag reflex made them feel like throwing up. it is as much physical as it is psychological.

confusion and/or hallucinations may occur — whumpee struggling to distinguish between what’s real and what’s in their head. denial may trick their mind into believing that the tragedy that’s happened to them didn’t actually happen, and denying is certainly not the read toward recovery.

whumpee stopped talking altogether. doesn’t matter if they’re safe with caretaker now. they would not talk to anybody about anything at all, not just what happened. (they physically could, but they’re so traumatized that speaking is too much for them.)

the needs to hide from everything and everyone all the time are there. doesn’t matter if it’s caretaker, whumpee simply does not wish to be seen.

they keep mostly silent and mostly to themself, in the sense that they avoid everybody and spend most of their time locked in their room where no one can see them.

they may be too afraid to make any decisions for themself, no matter how small the decision is.

appearing disengaged in any social interaction and limiting the way they express any emotion at all; in other cases where they’re not numb, they may be scared or upset in some situations, but their brain tells them to keep their guard up by not letting others see how they actually feel. whumpee believe they’re shielding and protecting themself this way, and they will always need to “play safe”, since it’s best not to let anyone know how they feel, even if it’s caretaker.

[whumpsoda]

Fixed - Part Three

Fixed Part 1 Fixed Part 2 Finally got around to it!! Kind of obsessed with the fact that you (or at least me) can really see the improvement in my writing with this one compared to the others :D

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @meddlingclocks (as you expressed interest in being tagged)

cw: pet whump, conditioning, brainwashing, villain whumpee

———————————————————————

The strong, overwhelming smell of sweetness wafted through the apartment, taking a hold on Hero’s room especially. Villain could clearly hear the other man’s faint whistling as he cooked, while the former criminal lie silently in bed.

Villain had been awake for hours, unable to sleep for long with the rush of his mind. It was probably well past morning, yet the air smelled as if Hero was making some sort of breakfast food. Villain was unable to place the scent, considering he hadn’t had a nice breakfast in a long time.

His mouth watered, and he clawed at his growling belly. The urge to exit Hero's bedroom was growing, food tempting him to make such a risky move. What if Hero got mad? Hero hadn’t gone over the rules yet, and Villain couldn’t bear making a mistake in the first twenty four hours of being there.

Time ticked past, and he couldn’t pry his thoughts from the thick smell enthralling him. His stomach was screaming, and Villain knew Superhero hadn’t fed him at all the day prior. 

But Hero seemed kinder than his predecessor. He’d always appeared that way, even before Villain’s rehabilitation. Maybe he would go easier on Villain if he messed up.

Rolling out of the bed, as silently as possible, Villain positioned himself on his tattered hands and knees. Gingerly, he crawled his way through the junk covered floor, trying his best not to mess with any of his master’s belongings. The door led right to the kitchen, and he made his way to a spot where he was sure Hero would take quick notice of him.

Hero stood above the stovetop, flipping a thick, pillowy pancake to its cooked side. He eyed it for a moment, before turning to face the man on his knees. 

“Oh!” He exclaimed, taken a bit aback. Villain hung his head low, bangs concealing a majority of his face. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were up.” He gave Villain a soft grin, his heart fluttering at the sight. Superhero never smiled at him.

Hero gestured to the pan in front of him. “You hungry? I didn’t really know what you liked so I just did pancakes. I think I’ve got some bacon in the fridge if you want that too.” 

Hero seemed so genuine, Villain couldn’t tell if it was a vicious trick. Pancakes? For him? The idea just seemed ridiculous. He still had yet to prove his worth to the man, so why would he ever?

Villain gave no response, instead his stomach did it for him. He winced at the sound, grabbing at his tummy as if to cover the noise. Hero simply huffed back a chuckle. “Just give me one sec. You can sit at the table and I’ll bring it over.”

Villain ignored most of his words, the single command captivating his attention. His vision turned to the rusted, foldable table and chair in the corner. He eagerly made his way over, knees thumping painfully against the hard flooring, simply happy to complete an order.

He followed dutifully as Hero bumbled around the tight space, putting together a messy plate of magical smelling food. His bulky socks shuffled over the ground with every movement, and occasionally Villain would catch a glimpse of the cartoonish cat plastered on the front of them. 

Hero finally turned to Villain’s direction, making his way to the table and eyeing the man on the floor as he did so. Villain practically drooled when he caught a glimpse of such bliss, as the plate set to the table with a tap.

“You can sit up here.” Hero stated, gripping onto a metal chair. 

Villain tensed, knuckles turning white as his nails dug into his palms. Hero was testing him. Testing him to see how obedient he could really be, how well Superhero had trained him. Villain couldn’t entertain the possibility of failing.

The two past enemies just stared back at each other, and awkwardly so. “Do you… need help? Standing, or something?” Hero questioned, and it was obvious he expected an answer. 

Don’t speak unless spoken to.

“Uh,” Villain’s voice cracked. “Um, well, I can, um…” He was unable to voice his confusion with the situation, to his increasing dismay. Hero listened to his attempt at words, before reaching a hand down to Villain’s level.

Villain swallowed thickly, taking in the sight. Hesitantly, he lifted his own sickly pale hand, delicately placing it atop Hero’s. Hero took it gently, before grabbing for Villain’s other hand as well. 

His bony legs buckled for a second as he made his way up, but Hero was there to keep him steady. Hero softly guided him into the chair, to which Villain quickly tucked his legs back under himself, resuming a kneeling position. He could sense Hero’s judging eyes at the behavior, but he said nothing.

The hearty meal looked even more delicious up close, and the pleasant smell was even more intense. Thick, gooey syrup dripped off the stack of savory, plush cake. He couldn’t resist licking his lips. 

Was this really for him? Was it possible?

He turned to Hero timidly, who stood tall over Villain. Hero nodded for him to continue, but it wasn’t enough. 

Hero must’ve taken the hint from the other man’s hesitancy. “Do… you can eat, man. It’s all yours.” Villain’s hopeful, puppy eyes were tearing into his heart. “I promise.”

Villain slowly began to eat, before he was overtaken by such extreme lusciousness that he wildly dug in. His lips were soon covered in a layer of sticky syrup, but he was too starving to even think about cleaning himself up, in favor of shoving more food down his throat. 

Soon though, a severe knock pounded to the front door, Villain flinching in surprise. Hero didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the furious sound, like he was expecting it. “I’m gonna go get that, ‘kay? Be back in just a sec.” Villain tried to reply, but his words were far too covered by his full mouth.

Villain picked up Hero stepping outside, presumably to speak to whoever was at the door. Muffled voices conversed in the hall, too dull for Villain to make out. Not that he would dare eavesdrop on his master. 

He quickly finished his meal, smiling sincerely with satisfaction. The delightful tastes still coated his mouth, and Villain eagerly savored them on his tongue. 

While Hero continued his conversation, Villain studied the room. Ingredients and tools still littered the counter, and of course his dirty utensils still sat in front of him. Maybe Hero would be proud of him if he cleaned it all up. He did a lot of cleaning at Superhero’s home anyway, and Villain was practically made for it. 

Enthusiastically he began his adventure, first placing his dishes into the dishwasher. He next returned all of Hero’s ingredients to their respective cabinets, noting which ones they belonged to as he went along. He soon found the cleaning products and supplies under the sink, starting off by wiping down the counters as his nerves began to rattle.

Hero had been outside for a long time. The voices were still noticeable, but were so incoherent they didn’t really help ease him. What if Hero was hurt? Kidnapped even? What would he do? His powers were off limits, he was well aware of that, so how could someone as weak and stupid as him help?

Villain expelled an audible sigh of relief as the front door clicked and Hero stepped back inside. Villain could almost make out the visual of someone behind the man, but was soon covered by Hero stopping to cover them.

“Villain!” He exclaimed nervously, eyes noticing the rag in the pet’s hand. “So, I have someone here to see you.” Hero said, hands motioning for the person behind him. He stepped out of the way, to reveal them. 

Villain’s eyes stayed warily on Hero, as he smiled uneasily. They only turned to the stranger when they stepped toward him. 

They were decked out in a bundled outfit of all black, only their eyes and a few strands of hair visible. Only when a leather gloved finger reached to their mask did Villain finally place who they were. 

“Villain…?” He stumbled back at the words, clutching to the countertop. Assistant’s eyes were watery as she watched him, a smile creeping to her lips. “Do you remember me? I’m so glad to see you.” 

This couldn’t be happening. She was here. A criminal, a dirty, nasty, scummy criminal. One he knew. One he had cherished once, in another life. He hadn’t thought of Assistant in months, the memories of anything villain related having been brutally beaten away. But she was here.

“Get- get away!” He shouted maliciously, stumbling back in an attempt to distance himself from the woman. “V- villain! Evil, evil, evil, villain!” Villain yelled, checking Hero’s bewildered expression.

Why wasn’t Hero doing anything? Why would he let a disgusting freak like her into his home?

“Villain!” She growled, both irritation and hurt elicited by his reaction.

He didn’t even hear what she said next, continuing to spew hateful cries. “Disgusting criminal! Terrible, terrible, terrible! Get away, get away, get away! I hate you!” He was already across the room from her, his back pressed against the wall. 

Assistant, ignoring his wails, continued closer, her arms stuck out before her. “Villain! Hey, what the fuck? It’s me!” Her voice wavered as she yelled over him, and Villain could tell she was holding down her emotions to her best ability.

Attempting to fully block out her noise, he hollered louder, eyes shut tight and head thrashing. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Disgusting, stupid, sick! I hate you!” He went on and on, raising his voice so loud all he could hear was himself. 

Fat tears slipped down his caving cheeks as he banged his head into the wall behind him, still screeching. Burly hands rushed to grab at his shoulders, gripping him to a stop. The flesh was warm and commanding, and his wide eyes opened to meet with Hero. Faced with his master, Villain’s voice trailed to a whisper.

Villain made an instant glance for the woman, but she seemed to have left. He hoped she would never come back.

The two made no moves for a beat, before Hero softly wiped the liquid from Villain’s cheek.

“H- hey. Are you with me?” Villain rigidly nodded. “Are you okay?” Villain supplied no response.

He slipped from Hero’s grip, sliding clumsily to his knees. “I- I didn’t, um, master, I- I’m a good boy, good, good boy, nice and fixed,” He stumbled horrified over his words, before his face twisted in agony. “Please don’t hurt me, just wanna be a good boy, not a bad, bad villain-” 

He leaned into Hero’s leg, enveloping his face into the crisp denim pant fabric. His tears soaked in as he continued pleading, hugging Hero’s leg in a tight embrace with all four limbs. “Please, I’m, I’ll be so good for you, a good boy, a fixed boy.” 

Yet again, Hero was stopped with the terrifying decision of what to do next. 

[serickswrites]

Eeeeeeeeey! It's meeeeeeeee!

Anyway, I hope you don't mind another request, as this popped up in my head just now!

A Whumpee in a hostage situation via bank/store robbery. Caretaker is outside the building Whumpee is in, begging to the hostage negotiators who were at the scene to let them in so they could save Whumpee (and apologize to Whumpee; they had a fight prior to Whumpee leaving).

They could only watch in horror as Whumper, one of the robbers, grabbed Whumpee and threatened them for everyone to stand down.

-- @whumperofworlds

Hello friend! I can definitely do this prompt for you. I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: hostage situation, gun, threat of death, gun shot, unclear character status, guilt, restraints, gag

"Please," Caretaker begged the hostage negotiator that stood in front of the truck that served as a command post. "Please, I need to go in there. Whumpee needs me. Please, I need to--"

"Caretaker," the negotiator said coolly, cutting off Caretaker, "you don't have the negotiating training."

"Please, I--"

"Caretaker, stop. You and Whumpee are a great team. You're great investigators. But neither you nor Whumpee have the negotiation training. I am in charge of this scene now. Let me and my team do my job."

Before Caretaker could try and beg for another chance, the negotiator walked off to the SWAT tent. Caretaker hung their head in shame. They had failed to convince anyone to let them go in after Whumpee.

Whumpee was in danger and this was all their fault.

They had called Whumpee reckless, called Whumpee an idiot, called Whumpee incompetent only an hour before Whumpee had gone into the bank by themself to interview the bank manager.

"Caretaker, I'm telling you, this bank is going to get hit next!" Whumpee had argued in the car as Caretaker drove through the city.

"You don't know that. Going in there will raise fear! We need to gather the evidence, Whumpee."

"Caretaker, I'm telling you, this bank fits the pattern. This is the next one. Please, believe me," Whumpee had said earnestly, their eyes bright and pleading.

"Whumpee, we need to do our jobs. We can't go off half cocked with no evidence. That's reckless. Don't be an idiot and waste time. We know the suspects are going to strike today, we don't want to waste what time we have left!"

Whumpee's face fell. "I am not going off half cocked. And I'm not an idiot. I know this is the one. I can feel it."

"Well your feelings lead to incompetence. We need evidence. We don't need to raise the alarm for some civilians for nothing."

"Let me out of here," Whumpee said softly, their hand already on the door handle.

"Whumpee, where are you going?" Caretaker shouted as Whumpee opened the door. They slammed on the breaks.

"You may not believe me, but I can't let this go. I'm right. I know I am."

And before Caretaker could shout at Whumpee again, they slammed the door and sprinted off towards the bank. "Whumpee!" Caretaker shouted out their window. But it was no use. Whumpee didn't stop or slow down.

And now Caretaker stared at the live footage the robbers had linked to Caretaker's team of investigators. Stared at the live footage knowing that Whumpee was right. And that Whumpee was in the bank with the other civilians without their gun. They had left the car without getting their service weapon out of the safe in the trunk.

Caretaker's mouth went dry as the lead robber dragged a bound and gag Whumpee in front of the camera. The robber pointed the gun at Whumpee's chest. "I want to talk to the person in charge. Now." The robber's voice was cold.

"HEY!" Caretaker shouted at the lead negotiator. "They know who Whumpee is. They know! Do something!"

The negotiator picked up the phone and called the line they had set up for the robber. "I understand you wanted to speak with me," their voice was calm and soft.

Caretaker couldn't believe the change in their demeanor. Did they think this technique would work? The whole reason the spree had lasted longer than normal was that the lead robber was cruel, calculating, and took no risk. They would just as soon as execute Whumpee on camera as listen to the negotiator. "Please, let me--"

The negotiator silenced Caretaker with a glare. "What can I do for you, my apologies I don't know what to call you."

"Whumper, you can call me Whumper."

"What can I do for you, Whumper? I would like to make sure everyone gets out of this safely."

Whumper shoved the gun into Whumpee's stomach. Whumpee coughed and gasped around their gag. "This one already tried that. Said they just wanted to talk and that they would help me. I don't need their help. I don't need your help."

"Well, it seems like you're stuck in there, so I'd like to help you out."

Whumper fisted Whumpee's hair and pulled them back up to kneeling. "You don't understand. I am in charge here. You will do as I say and maybe some of the hostages will make it out of here."

"I want all of the hostages to make it out of there, Whumper. Could we just--"

"You will stand down in the next five minutes or this one," they pointed the gun at Whumpee's chest once more, "will be leaving here in a body bag."

"Please, if you just let me--" Caretaker tried once more.

"You know it will take us more time to clear the scene. If we could just have--"

Whumper looked at their watch, "You have four minutes now."

Caretaker ran out from the truck. They couldn't listen to the incompetence of the negotiator. If the negotiator wasn't going to get Whumpee out alive, they would.

Two uniformed officers ran forward to bar Caretaker's journey. "You can't go in there, Caretaker."

"Please, Whumpee needs me!" Caretaker had to get in there. Had to save Whumpee. Had to apologize. Had to hold them and never let them go. Had to say all of the things they had longed to say but couldn't.

"Caretaker, we can't let you do that."

One loud gunshot rang out. The world went quiet as Caretaker froze. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. They were right there. Whumpee was right there.

"WHUMPEE!"

[jumpywhumpywriter]

PROMPT: Whumpee (Nico) Drugged for His Own Good part 1

TW: tortured, recovery, escape/rescue, drugged

PROMPT: a whumpee being drugged for their own good, looking up at their friends with fear/anger/betrayal in their eyes.

MY WRITING:

Nico was safe at last, surrounded by friends after months of brutal torture. He'd almost died in that wretched place so many times he'd lost count. But now he was at a familiar building, laying on a bed with his closest friend Marcus watching over him.

Nico had argued that he was fine, but the dozens of viciously-inflicted wounds across his body suggested otherwise. But he didn't want to be a burden. He didn't like to talk about what he went through in those months, but the memories haunted him every second of every day.

He put up a strong facade for his friends, mirroring his once tough-as-nails personality, trying to act normal again, but inside he was broken and afraid. He was afraid to sleep, for the nightmares. Afraid to eat, for the spoiled food he'd had to consume that made him deathly sick. Afraid to bathe, for fear of being drowned.

He was once the strongest member of his team as their leader -- unphasable, the most confident and level-headed of them all... but now... he was a hollow shell of who he once was. He wasn't the great and noble leader he used to be, but he desperately didn't want to let his team down.

He'd already done that once, the moment he'd made the heroic choice to sacrifice his life in place of Marcus's, given himself up to Villain to save his friend's life. That's how it had all happened. All the agony he'd endured... the days of endless suffering... it was supposed to be Marcus. Villain had tortured him for endless hours just to spite him for that sacrifice. Mock him for it. And it had taken months for Nico's friends to track down Villain's hidden hideout and rescue him. He'd been half-dead when they found him, barely clinging to consciousness.

And now here he was, trying to fit back into an old life with new limitations. His left leg had been shredded to bloody ribbons during captivity, so bad that it was hard to even walk a few steps. He'd probably never be able to fight again, lead his friends into battles.

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed he was laying on, gently rubbing his shoulder reassuringly, one of the few places Nico wasn't injured.

Nico had been hit with shrapnel from an explosion when he was at Villain's hideout, when his friends had blown in a metal wall to rescue him. The sharp shrapnel was buried in his abdomen, and his friends insisted he let them do surgery to remove the pieces that were dangerously close to vital organs, but every time he'd refused. He was terrified of the thought of being knocked out, an unreasonable fear because it reminded him of all the times he'd passed out from the agony during torture after screaming his throat raw and bloody, ruining his voice. He hated the thought of being that vulnerable, that exposed again.

But his friends had continued badgering him about it, trying to convince him to let them take the shrapnel out... except for today. For some odd reason none of them had mentioned the shrapnel today, despite constantly talking about it every day prior.

Nico's head pounded with pain, his whole body a vessel of pure agony. He'd been stuck in bed for three days now, barely able to do more than sit up and lay down again.

Marcus stayed with Nico almost every hour, sleeping on the floor just to stay near him and make sure he was still breathing. The guilt must be tearing him apart, knowing that Nico suffered all the pain in his place.

"It should have been me," Marcus said quietly, voice cracking as he rubbed Nico's shoulder.

"No," Nico wheezed, "it was my choice to make. Don't blame yourself for it."

Marcus still looked heartbroken, but he shook his head, reaching to the table at his bedside to pick up a glass of milk. "At least drink something," he offered sadly. Milk and other nutrient-rich drinks had been one of the only ways to sustain Nico, seeing as he couldn't keep any food down.

Marcus helped Nico sit up, and Nico couldn't suppress the sharp cry of pain at even that simple movement, making Marcus wince sympathetically. Nico took the glass with trembling hands and forced himself to drink. He had almost finished, when the room started dimming, and he stared down at the near-empty glass with dawning realization.

"No... you wouldn’t really..." He breathed out the words, tearing his gaze from the glass to stare at Marcus in sheer disbelief, utter betrayal twisting his features at the knowing expression on his friend's solemn face.

"I'm sorry," Marcus whispered, guilt and shame filling his eyes. "But we have to get the shrapnel out before it kills you." He stood up from the bed to stand in front of Nico.

Nico's face was devastated and hurt, before helpless anger took over. With an anguished shout, he summoned what weak strength was left in his ravaged body and lurched to his feet, swinging a punch at Marcus's face. Marcus easily sidestepped the attack, and Nico stumbled, a cry of agony tearing loose from his chest as broken ribs ground together. His legs buckled, the burst of strength gone, and he crumpled. But Marcus caught him before he could hit the floor, holding him up.

"...How could you?" Nico choked out, eyes stinging. The one friend he thought he could trust with his life had betrayed him.

"Because you're not taking care of yourself," Marcus answered softly. "And someone has to keep you alive."

Like a dam that was shattered, all the agony, all the feelings and pain Nico had been suppressing surged to the surface, hitting him all at once. He tried to jerk out of Marcus's grip, but Marcus held him tightly against his chest, limiting his futile struggles.

And then Nico couldn't help it anymore. He broke down, sobbing pathetically, tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn't care anymore if he was falling apart piece by piece in front of his friend, his teammate. Didn't care if Marcus could see his weakness and pain.

Nico's whole body shook and trembled, and another anguished sob escaped him as the world around him grew fuzzy and distant, falling farther away with each passing second.

"It's going to be okay," Marcus murmured soothingly into his ear, the guilt openly edging his voice. "You can let go. Rest."

But Nico was terrified of that lingering darkness creeping over his conscience, if he closed his eyes he might never wake up again. But it was getting harder and harder to fight it. He slumped against Marcus, slowly going limp in his arms even as he cried and sobbed helplessly into his friend's shoulder, the pain overwhelming. It broke Marcus's heart to betray him like this, but it was for his own good.

"No... please don't let me... fall asleep..." Nico begged pathetically, his voice starting to slur and fade.

Marcus's face twisted with regret. "I can't do that, but I can assure you that I'll wake you up when it's over."

"...P-Promise?" Nico croaked, his voice now barely more than a raspy whisper.

"I promise," Marcus answered without a beat of hesitation.

Nico clung to consciousness with everything he had, but the sedatives were too strong, and eventually it slipped out of grasp, tossing his mind into darkness, and he gave up, letting himself go limp. He was distantly aware of his friend gently lowering him to the floor, but nothing more.

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Even with their growing collection of wounds that throb in various degrees of pain, Whumpee does their best to feign sleep. It's hard to keep a lax expression and limp muscles when every fiber in their being was experiencing some sort of discomfort. Still, they tried. They didn't clench their fists until their whole arms trembled, they didn't squeeze their eyes shut, they didn't quicken their breathing...

So why won't Whumper hurry up and go away!?

Whumpee didn't need to open their eyes to know Whumper was still standing over where they had curled up on the floor, their menacing presence making itself known. Giving up the ruse now would only invite some type of punishment for outright ignoring Whumper, or perhaps they would 'awaken' to a teasing smirk that showed Whumper knew they were faking the entire time. Poor Whumpee couldn't even shudder at the thought lest their captor assumed they were coming out of slumber, ready to start the torment anew.

No, instead they heard the shuffle of fabric as Whumper dropped down to crouch on their haunches, a little closer in height to Whumpee's fetal position. Were they examining for a closer look, trying to determine if this was genuine sleep or unconsciousness, plotting their devious idea of how to bring Whumpee's nightmare into reality? The gnawing anxiety in Whumpee's throat that begged to be released in a whimper was almost too much to bear. Perhaps they should drop the act, get whatever Whumper wanted over w-

A warm hand carded through Whumpee's hair. Not roughly, not ripped through the knots or gripping the base of their scalp to yank their neck to the side. The fingers merely glided through, tucking a few strands out of Whumpee's face and smoothing the frizzier sections down with a couple pets. The same hand moved further down to cup their cheek, Whumper's thumb rubbing against the skin to wipe away the remaining grime that hadn't been washed off by tears.

God, Whumpee was just about ready to combust. There was no way Whumper couldn't feel the tension in their jaw from how tightly they were biting down. As much as they were trying to school their facial muscles into neutrality, the unpleasantness of this entire interaction had to be plain as day on their face. It was tempting to snap their eyes open and give Whumper a good shove backwards just to get them the hell away.

What kind of sick game was this anyhow? Who did Whumper think they were fooling with these sweet gestures? Whumpee knew what those hands currently caressing them were capable of. They had experienced far more pain than gentleness, the latter being nonexistent during their captivity. It was unlikely Whumper had a sudden change of heart, yet whatever taunting they were trying to bait Whumpee with was going on for quite a while without a punchline. There was no sudden pinch or verbal admission they knew Whumpee was awake, no thumb digging into their eye socket, no fistful of their hair being yanked up and slammed back down on the floor.

In fact, just a moment of soft touching later, Whumper withdrew their hand and...left. Footsteps faded back and out of the room, punctuated by the sound of the door quietly being shut behind them and a couple locks clicking in place to ensure Whumpee remained inside. It took another full minute of stillness before Whumpee had the courage to open their eyes and confirm they were indeed alone, no more marred than they had been earlier prior to their attempted nap.

How the fuck were they doing to get any rest after that?

[suspensefulpen]

All His Fault

TW: Conditioned Whumpee, Mentioned Past Kidnapping

Medic walked into the room and found Whumpee squinting at what looked like a word search. They seemed more relaxed than the days prior. They didn't sit as stiffly on the white sofa anymore, now wrapping an arm around the leg pulled up to their chest in a more calmed manner while the other stretched out. He smiled, somewhat relieved to see them doing something other than hiding in his office from Team Leader. 

“How are you feeling today Whumpee?” 

They raised their head with a curious expression. “Um… okay. I guess.” They nodded slowly before looking back down at the paper. 

Medic walked over and noticed Whumpee hadn’t found any words yet. Maybe he should have left something else for them to do. “Would you like a pen or anything?” 

“A pen? Uh, no, I’m… I’m okay.” Whumpee shook their head. 

He hummed. “Any nightmares or anything last night?” 

“No…” They leaned closer to the paper. 

“Do you need help?” 

“No.” 

Medic nodded and walked over to the doorway. “I’ll get you some breakfast, alright? I’ll be back.” He walked out the door once he saw Whumpee nod. When he stepped out of the room, he nearly ran into Team Leader who apologized sheepishly. “You’re alright.” Medic smiled and waved him off. “What’s up?” 

“Is Whumpee alright?” Team Leader asked in a whisper. 

“Yep. They’re completely fine from the looks of it.” Medic’s smile fell. “But I’m still concerned. I mean I don’t want to say that they’re lying about being okay but I just… I don’t understand how okay they are. I mean being kidnapped and held against your will is traumatizing but it doesn’t seem to have effected Whumpee whatsoever.” 

Team Leader risked peeking into the room. “Maybe it really is me…” 

“No, no it’s not that. It can’t be you.” Medic shook his head. “Don’t blame yourself for that. After all, people process their trauma differently. Maybe I should just leave it alone…” He sighed. 

“But it is my fault. If I was there in time, Whumper would never have kidnapped Whumpee. There’s no telling what he did to them. He probably brainwashed them, hurt them, or–or—” 

“Team Leader.” Medic placed his hand on his shoulder as he spoke sternly. “Don’t put everything on yourself. Not everything that went wrong that day is your fault. Not every bad thing that happens to us is your fault.” 

Team Leader’s gaze shifted elsewhere as he stood in silence. He took another peek in the room at Whumpee. 

No matter what anyone said to soothe him, all of this was his fault. 

[deathbywhump]

One big thing on my mind that I haven't seen much of is stuff regarding whumper motivations and thoughts. For a whumper to want to hurt whumpee to that extent, what happened? Was there any reason for it? What for?

I guess it depends on each whumper specifically, and they're honestly pretty similar to villain motivations. However, not all whumpers are villians, and not all villains are whumpers.

In my opinion, the relationship between a whumper and whumpee prior to their current one is what makes the motivations of a whumper. They could've been close friends. They could still be close friends. They could be mortal enemies. Rivals. The protagonist and the antagonist. They could be a couple. They could be a student and a teacher. Or a doctor and a patient. A mob character and the main character.

It becomes more of a study between human relationships once you pick it apart. I love whump, because you can safely explore what exactly makes a relationship fall apart.

[forwhump]

Your Light Was On

a/n; will I always start every post by apologizing for posting ? probably, so here we go: sorry ! I’m kind of purging the folder in my google docs app for these two & they’ve lived on my shoulders for years so I have an absolutely insurmountable amount of content. I’m gonna be just unbearable w all my posting & I apologize in advance ! but will I apologize again anyway in the future ? probably yes !

this is kind of light on the whump & more of just a random oneshot, but if I’m gonna post these 2 little guys entire, traumatic lives (& I am) it’s important there’s some backstory okay ?! it can’t get worse if we didn’t know how less shit it used to be !

tw/cw mentions of being gutted, gore, wounds, mentions of medical torture, hints of complete loss of autonomy

human weapon whumpee, patching up wounds, stitches

There had always been something about Wren.

Even before Wren was his Wren, even before Wren had started to beat in the place where his heart used to be. Silas had always been drawn to him, an instinct entirely outside of his own control.

Wren was beautiful, Wren is beautiful, and Wren is beautiful in a completely unapproachable way. Wren is so beautiful it gives him an unsettling sort of quality and honestly, when Silas had first been dragged into this unit, Wren was so beautiful it had kind of creeped him out.

It had really creeped him out, actually, but he’d been drawn to him all the same. As creepy as he was, there was something Silas had always found really enchanting about him.

The way he speaks, maybe, always soft, gentle and sweet, but his accent is thick and Silas always thought it was weird. Every human bit of Silas had been wiped away, his memories along with it. He doesn’t remember a life outside this place. He doesn’t know anything outside these walls. He doesn’t know any accents but those around him, and that’s a total of three; two of the soldiers, London and English, have the the same accent; the rest of the unit shares an accent with Silas; Wren and his brother, Robin, have accents like nothing else Silas thinks he’s ever heard. Weird, but obviously beautiful and enchanting, like everything else about Wren. He’s from a place called Sugar Land, because of course he is. He looks exactly like somebody Silas would picture being from a place called Sugar Land.

Always so soft spoken, though, so patient, so kind. So gentle with Silas.

And maybe it was situational. Silas was their unit’s only weapon, but he wasn’t their only freak. They could be divided up into three categories; Weapons, Super Soldiers, and Wren. For a long time, Silas couldn’t even begin to guess what the hell Wren was doing there, but he was there, and he was human. His skin was still soft. He was warm.

Whatever it was, it pulled at Silas, it clawed at all the squishy human parts of him he didn’t realize he still had.

It was the pain that had woken him up. About a week prior, he’d been gutted during something the soldiers called a training exercise — Silas couldn’t die, so they made a game of making him bleed. Healing was shitty and Silas kept ripping his stitches. It was the pain that had woken him up, and he woke up with his sheets and his shirt both sticking to him, soaked through with blood. He was floating in it.

And Wren wasn’t his Wren yet. They weren’t even really close. Silas probably wouldn’t’ve bugged him at all, but when he dragged himself out of his room, fleeing a sticky trail of bloody footprints, Wren’s light was on, filtering into the corridor from beneath his door.

Silas tried to knock, but he was bleeding a lot and starting to lose dexterity in his fingers. He kind of banged his hand against Wren’s door, cruder than he meant to.

Wren’s voice was more tense than Silas had been expecting. It sounded weird. Not like usual. “What do you want?”

And then Silas realized that maybe he had just fallen asleep with his light on, and he felt weird for standing outside his bedroom, bleeding and waking him up. “Sorry,” he said.

A rustle, like Wren was moving in bed. It had made Silas blush, which he thought was kind of a waste of what little blood was left in his body. “What?” Wren had said. “Silas?”

“Yeah,” Silas said. He’d smudged blood on Wren’s door when he knocked. He tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but there was blood on his sleeve and he made it much worse. “Sorry.”

The door was pulled away from his face as Wren eased it open. His hair was down, and it was the first time Silas had ever seen his hair down. It made him feel weird, like he was looking at something private, something really intimate, something he didn’t deserve to see, and it made him feel so weird it made him lightheaded. Or was that the blood loss?

“What are you doing?” Wren had asked, soft and concerned. “What happened to you?”

“I think I pulled my stitches,” Silas said.

It made Wren smile. Wren had always had one of Silas’ favourite smiles, even back then. It had made him blush again, which just made him feel stupid. Blushing and bashful, bleeding down the insides of his joggers so they were sticking to the insides of his thighs and his blood was starting to pool around Wren’s feet. Wren said, “I think you might be right.”

“I have a feeling,” Silas agreed. Wren breathed out a laugh, which had made him smile — crooked, now, because of a scar at the corner of his mouth, a lasting memory from a different training exercise.

“Do you need a hand?” He asked softly.

Silas nodded. “Yes, please.”

Wren smiled up at him as he stepped out of the way, and Silas almost slipped in his own blood on his way across the threshold. Wren set him up on the end of his bed and stood between his knees as he peeled off Silas’ t-shirt. It was the closest they had ever been to being the same height, and Silas had felt really weird about that. He thought it might’ve been a good weird, but he couldn’t be sure.

Wren was gentle and his hands were soft. Silas didn’t know why, yet, not at that time, but he knew already of Wren’s weird affinity for getting things; he was the only one of them that could ask a soldier for something, and get it. He could make requests. He got gifts. He was allowed to keep things in his room. He had things to keep.

Among his things were general medical supplies. He cleaned Silas’ leaking wounds. He taped him back together again. His stitches were all ugly, raised staples, barely holding shredded flesh together, but Wren didn’t flinch. He didn’t wretch. He cleaned and he taped and he was so gentle, so careful, as he layered bandages over the furious, red, raised Y of his wound.

Silas watched him closely. He didn’t mean to, not necessarily, but like in every other aspect, he was drawn to Wren, and he couldn’t help but watch him, his long, deft fingers, the part of his lips, the shadow his eyelashes cast on his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said finally, and he didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t really help himself. Just thinking it didn’t seem like enough.

Wren’s eyes flickered up to him from beneath his eyelashes. “Thank you.”

“It’s kinda weird,” Silas admited.

It startled a laugh out of Wren, who looked up at Silas properly. “Excuse me?”

Silas cracked a smile, crooked. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s weird.”

“I think you’re weird,” Wren told him, lips curved into a smile that made Silas feel kind of sick but in a good way.

“Why?” He protested. “Just ‘cause I get gutted sometimes?”

Wren laughed again. He layered another bandage over the stapes down the centre of Silas’ chest, pressing it into place with warm, gentle fingers. It gave Silas goosebumps.

Wren noticed. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He thumbed gently over Silas’ sternum, an apology. “Did I hurt you?”

Silas was bleeding less so he could feel his blush a little more properly in his face. “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

He did that thing again, looked quickly up at Silas before he looked away.

Silas didn’t stop watching him. He didn’t think he could’ve if he wanted to. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Wren answered.

“Your light was on,” Silas said, curious, but it had come out kind of gruff. “Why?”

Wren smiled but he didn’t lift his head. “I don’t sleep very much,” he said.

“What do you do?” Silas asked.

He smiled again. “I draw, usually,” he said. He flattened a hand against Silas’ chest as he smoothed out a bandaid and Silas could only hope he couldn’t feel how much quicker his heart started to beat in return. “I used to be an artist.”

“What’s an artist?” Silas asked.

Wren looked up at him properly, and he didn’t smile. He turned away from Silas, in fact, and Silas very nearly panicked, thinking he offended him. It wasn’t his own fault he didn’t know what an artist was — he had no point of reference. “I’m sorry,” he said, an instinct.

“Why?” Wren asked. He was shuffling through a stack of books on his desk, his back to Silas. “Don’t be.”

He wasn’t looking at him and Silas didn’t find that very reassuring at all. “Okay.”

But when Wren turned back to him, a thick, bound book in one hand, he smiled again. He offered the book to Silas, who took it carefully, before Wren went back to carefully bandaging his split chest. “My art,” he explained.

Oh.

“There are a lot of mediums for art,” Wren told him. “Some people use words. Songs. Charcoal, clay. I’ve always preferred paint and pencil.”

Silas opened the book at random. The pages were thick and white and they were covered in the most unbelievable art Silas had ever seen.

Wren was so talented.

He’d drawn things Silas recognized from around prison, things from before that Silas didn’t remember or that he had never seen. He’d drawn people Silas had never met. He’d drawn the rest of their unit. He’d drawn Silas.

Silas didn’t recognize his portrait at first. There are no mirrors in the unit, nothing really reflective at all, and Silas couldn’t quite remember what he’d looked like before this place, anyway, before everything that had been done to him. But there was an angle to the portrait’s smile, crooked, because of a stenciled scar at the corner of its mouth. Its head was kind of tilted away, angular jaw and crooked smile. Its hair was Silas’ hair, but pulled only half up at the crown of his head, the rest loose around his back and his shoulders.

Silas didn’t wear his hair like that very often; only when June could be arsed to do it for him.

“Me?” He asks, holding the drawing up for Wren to see.

Wren looked up, and looked away just as quickly. Not so quickly that Silas couldn’t see him flush, pink, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, and his smile was sheepish. “That’s you.”

Silas studied the drawing carefully. The more he looked, the stronger he could taste his own heartbeat. “Why?”

“Why did I draw you?” Wren asked. He nodded. Wren didn’t look at him when he said, “I thought you looked beautiful.”

Oh. Well.

Silas didn’t know what to do with that, but it made his chest hurt, well beneath where Wren was patching him up. He flipped through more pages, looked at more of Wren’s art, found more drawings of himself.

One of them was drawn from behind. Silas, his hair in that half knot, big and broad shouldered. He knew it was him because he’d been drawn in the deadly uniform they dress him in for field tests. He looked lethal; he looked like something from a nightmare.

He held the book up again for Wren to see. “Me?”

Wren looked up, looked away, exhaled a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “That’s you, too.”

Silas found that very interesting. He flipped another few pages until he found himself again, his profile, recognizable enough because of the scars. It was interesting to see them from the outside. It also made him dizzy. He held the book up again.

Wren breathed out another laugh. “Are you just looking for drawings of you?”

“Yes,” Silas said.

Wren laughed properly, which made Silas grin, but he wasn’t kidding, and he flipped a few more pages.

“I’ve never seen me,” he said.

Wren’s hand stilled on his chest. “What?”

“I’ve never seen me,” Silas repeated. “It’s weird.”

“You’ve never seen you,” Wren said, and his hand left Silas’ chest entirely. “I guess you haven’t, have you?”

Silas looked up, shaking his head.

Wren held his hand out, expectant, and Silas handed his book back, reluctant. Wren flipped through the pages deftly before he turned it back around, holding it out to Silas with a smile. “That’s you.”

Silas took the book from him carefully and studied the drawing closely. It was a head on portrait, and it had to be flattering, because it was kind of a handsome drawing, even with all the raised scars and patchwork disfigurement. He wasn’t smiling and he definitely looked scary, there was no doubt he was a nightmare, but he looked more like a man than he was expecting. Less like a monster.

He felt really weird about that, so he said, “you draw my hair like this a lot.” His hair was pulled into that half knot at the crown of his head.

He looked up at Wren, who looked a little like he’d been caught. He said, with a smile, “I like your hair like that.”

“Oh,” Silas said, and he looked down at the drawing again. He couldn’t look at it very much longer. He closed the book and handed it back to Wren, who placed it back on his desk. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Wren said softly. He layered a final bandage over Silas’ chest and they were done. He offered Silas a smile and his blood soaked t-shirt.

Silas took it as he stood. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Wren said, so earnest it had kind of taken him off guard. “If you need me, Silas, don’t be shy. Anytime. Even if my light isn’t on.”

Silas heaved his shoulders. And, as a matter of fact, immediately regretted it, pain rippling down the lines of his staples. “I won’t wake you up if you’re sleeping. Not if you don’t sleep very much.”

Wren laughed softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do,” Silas said. “You’re very small.”

Wren laughed again. His small hand brushed his arm as Silas left his room. “Goodnight, Silas.”

Silas smiled, crooked. It felt weirder on his face now that he kind of knew what it looked like. “Goodnight, Wren.”

He closed the door behind him. All the blood had dried on the surface, and it looked like a crime scene.

A problem for the morning.

[wildkimiko]

Because this is my current fic and I'm rotating my blorbo inside my head*

A leader whumpee who has abandonment issues, so they try really hard to be there for their team, to the point where it's self-destructive.

Maybe they were exiled from their community. Maybe their parents let them down. Maybe they're an orphan, and never had anyone care for them. Maybe they're incredibly afraid of the people they love being harmed in some way. So when they get older, and they're surrounded by people who they care about, they dedicate themselves to them, because that's all they wanted as a child. They always just stop shy of throwing away their life to save their friends, but if the situation came about, they'd do it. Literally "ride or die". Sometimes it scares the team with how much Leader will do for them just to ensure they're safe, healthy, and happy.

But as a result, Leader is terrified that their team will not care for them in the same manner. When Whumper kidnaps them, they can't help but think their team won't come for them. Everyone else in their life prior to that never came when they asked for help. And when Whumper whispers in their ear that nobody will save them, after a while they start to believe it. Days turns to weeks, or months, and they steadily lose hope that anyone is coming to save them.

This can lead down two paths:

1) their team doesn't come for them. Whether it takes them to long go find Whumpee, or Whumpee manages to escape on their own, their worries are validated. The team is excited to see Whumpee safe and sound, but Whumpee seems... Different, now. They don't offer a helping hand, and they begrudgingly will protect them during a fight, but... The dedication just isn't there. Whumpee grows more and more distant until their team confronts them. And Leader Whumpee breaks down, yelling at them for not rescuing them, that all this time they thought their team would care. It takes a lot of time to convince Leader Whumpee that they were looking for them, that they used every trick and connection they shared to find them.

2) their team DOES come for them. They rescue Leader Whumpee and care for them. But Whumpee doesn't quite believe it's real. It takes quite a bit of convincing to tell their leader that yes, they care about them, they'd always come to help, to relax and be the one looked after for a change. Bonus points if they tell Whumpee this when they're incredibly feverish, and the realization that they DO care just causes all the stress to leave their body, and they collapse because they know they're safe and loved.

Just... Ugh. I love it. That's why I'm writing it.

*I have aphantasia and cannot actually rotate blorbo in my head, so that's why you get this post

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Post non-con recovery scene ideas with caretaker and whumpee?

tw: r*pe aftermaths, sa, ptsd, ed

whumpee flinched at every physical contact, no matter how light or gentle (no matter if it was nonsexual or if it came from caretaker or a doctor or a nurse), because their mind had associated all kinds of physical contact with the time they were assaulted now. 

caretaker wanted to hug them, but they understood whumpee’s struggle and remained their distance for the sake of whumpee’s wounds (both mental and physical). 

whumpee knew caretaker wasn’t going to hurt them, they just couldn’t help being terrified by any physical contact now.

though it became an issue when whumpee had to be examined by doctors and nurses. it pained caretaker to have to hold whumpee down and keep whumpee still when the medical procedure was being performed on them to make sure whumpee was healing properly, and whumpee cried and whimpered and just tried to get away because so many hands were touching them and all they could think of was their assaulters forcing themselves on them.

when the procedure was done, caretaker let go of whumpee (despite their wanting to keep holding and comforting whumpee) and whumpee leaped out of their arms to go hide somewhere they believed would shield them from… anything, sometimes they went and hid behind a drawer, hugging themself with their knees against their chest, sometimes they went and hid underneath the bed and wouldn’t come out for hours.

whumpee refused to make eye contact with anyone, including caretaker.

at night whumpee couldn’t sleep alone, so caretaker took the couch in the room with them and kept the nightstand lamp on throughout the night. (sleeping in the same bed with whumpee was still too much, and caretaker understood that.)

loss of appetite. caretaker never wanted to have to force whumpee to eat, but when it’d been a while since the last time whumpee ate anything and they were putting their health at risk, caretaker had no choice but to make sure whumpee ate. (caretaker was still being gentle, of course, but for whumpee’s health, they couldn’t let whumpee leave the table until whumpee finished at least half of the food on their plate.)

whumpee’s obedience both relieved and angered caretaker, because whumpee was never this “docile” prior to their assault. now whumpee wouldn’t talk back or argue and would do anything they were told to do (like whumpee was afraid they would get punished if they disobeyed). sure, whumpee was eating now. because caretaker told them to. and while it was for whumpee’s own good and it was a good thing that whumpee ate, whumpee’s complete obedience still disturbed caretaker. 

it angered caretaker, yes, but caretaker wasn’t angry with whumpee. they were angry with whumpee’s assaulters, and they had to make sure their anger was well hidden so that whumpee couldn’t see it and think caretaker was angry at them.

besides the trauma, whumpee believed they were being a burden, that they were holding caretaker and everybody else down by being so “difficult” and they blamed themself for it. they also believed they didn’t deserve caretaker’s kindness. thus caretaker sat down with whumpee and patiently explained why whumpee could never be a burden and why caretaker was glad to have whumpee here with them now. whumpee… knew that, deep down, but caretaker’s reassurance didn’t necessarily mean whumpee’s own mind would magically stop feeding them poison just because caretaker said nice things to them, did it? — caretaker only said this because they had to, because they pitied you, said the voices in whumpee’s head, but whumpee told caretaker they believed them nonetheless, because they obviously wasn’t going to start an argument with caretaker, or with anybody, for that matter.

the first time whumpee willingly let caretaker hug them, they hesitantly and carefully crawled onto caretaker’s lap. It was a rather impressive progress and caretaker knew that, they also knew to be very gentle and mindful as to not do anything that could overwhelm or trigger whumpee’s trauma. 

only when caretaker was certain whumpee was okay with this did they softly wrap their arms around whumpee’s back as whumpee rested their head on caretaker’s chest, curling in on themself on caretaker’s lap.

still on caretaker's lap, whumpee finally looked up to meet caretaker's eyes and gave them a soft smile. it was a sad smile, and it was barely noticeable. but it was a smile nonetheless.

caretaker really thought they would never get to see whumpee's smile again.

[whumpsoda]

can I request what you think your previous prompt about the thralled whumpee and whumper would be like in day to day life? definitely picking up Lima syndrome vibes. i’d even wager a bet and say that whumper probably dresses whumpee in beautiful expensive clothes, and finds it adorable how spacey and easily entertained they are. the whumper does care deeply for them in a messed up kind of way afterall.

WOHEO Masterlist

Of course!! I’m glad so many people liked that first one!!

cw: vampire whumper, human whumpee, intimate whumper, hypnosis, pet whump

———————————————————————

“Oh my goodness!” A delighted gasp rang out, prior to a shrill squeal. “This one is most definitely my favorite! You just look your absolute cutest!” The vampire exclaimed joyously, captivated by the sight in front of them.

They took a step back, admiring their handiwork with love stricken eyes and a giddy smile. Biting their lip excitedly, they curled their hands together. “My delicious little thing.” They cooed. 

The vampire pinched the human’s pudgy cheeks, mushing his face between fingers like putty. Malak barely even recognized the touch, his head too much of a sticky pool of pleasure. The only sensation his body registered was the far too bright flash of a camera in his face.

Adrastus had left on a shopping spree that evening, returning to the mansion with an unimaginable amount of frilly, extravagant gowns for their pet. For what could’ve been hours, they had been adorning Malak with each outfit, and obsessing over his appearance.

With each new article, Adrastus made it a point to flash as many pictures for their endless collection as possible, determined to capture the moment.

They allowed their camera to settle around their neck, instead using two hands to lift Malak by the armpits. The human’s head lolled as his limp body was hauled from the comfort of the padded arm chair, a slight groan escaping his lips from the harsh movement.

The weight of Malak’s sluggish, large figure was no issue for the strength of a vampire, especially one as powerful as Adrastus, even if they appeared skinny and frail.

“Oh, forgive me, darling. I just need a better look at my precious little pumpkin.” For a moment, they simply studied Malak with doting eyes, before resting the drowsy man against their bony shoulder. One hand lie on his back, as to prevent them from slipping to the floor, while the other sifted through his freshly cut hair.

After a period of tenderly holding the large man, Adrastus gently lay him down on their plush bed. Malak sank into the rich fabric, leaning into the satisfying tickle of a blanket against his skin.

“So docile tonight, aren’t you? So dozy.” Towering over Malak, they contently grinned down at the man. “I have just the gift for you.”

In the blink of an eye they disappeared from the thrall’s vision, only to return a moment later with a small contraption in hand. 

“I just had to get this for you. I knew your empty little head would just adore it.” Adrastus flopped onto their stomach, adjacent to Malak, after placing the object between them. After a short second, dull light cascaded over the dimly lit room, carefully transitioning from color to color.

They watched in charmed fascination as Malak shifted their head to gaze over the ceiling with foggy eyes. He ogled in cloudy allure at the patterns projected above him, a distant smile forming on his lips.

Adrastus sighed pleasantly. The two rested in individual serenity, the sound of silence filling the atmosphere.

In a daze of mindless enchantment, Malak drifted into the delicate graze of fingers on his neck. Distantly, he recognized the sensation of limbs intertwining with his own.

“Look at all those pretty lights, darling. The way they twist and turn over each other, so captivating.” They whispered into his ear, curling into the warmth of their thrall’s body. “Absolutely beautiful, aren’t they? Just utterly engrossing, filling up the space inside your head.” 

Malak felt himself getting caught in the swirling glow above him. “So riveting, so enthralling, that all else just melts away. Master will keep you safe as you lose yourself in the sight.” The rippling visuals blossomed a blissful warmth in his chest, seeping into his frame.

Hot breath beat against the skin of his neck, forcing him to subconsciously crane his neck to open the space.

Even under such a heavy spell, he couldn’t help but expell a strained mewl over the pierce of two aching pricks in the tender flesh of his neck.

Soon though, the wash of overwhelming pleasure was far too strong to mull over it for more than an instant.

As the blood drained from Malak’s system, it was almost as if his mind drained as well. His head throbbed slightly, and soon the pull of unconsciousness krept upon him. Before his head became too light, sharp fangs released from his flesh, replaced by supple kisses to the puncture.

“My apologies, sweetie pie.” Adrastus cupped his face, forcing him to break from his trance and meet eyes with the vampire. “I lost control of myself a bit, there. You’re just too cute to resist the calling of an extra meal.”

[parasiticwhumpee]

Heart of Bone

(There may be more updates to this)

Cw: Mentions of toture, conditioning, mindbroken whumpee, carewhumper

Whumper glanced into Whumpees room as they walked by. It was still as empty as the day Whumper set it up. The blankets were folded, the bed was made, not a single piece of clothing taken out of the dresser. They sighed and walked past the unused room towards the living room.

“Whumpee?” They called out as they searched the house. Whumper heard a small shuffle from behind the couch and walked towards it. “Whumpee, is that you?” Whumper kept their voice quiet as they slowly leaned over the top of the couch. Their eyes met Whumpee’s, the small form cowering and curled up behind the couch.

Whumpee hadn’t left the spot in weeks. Ever since they had been lead out of the basement. As much as Whumper adored hearing the screams, the begging, the sobbing, they were starting to worry a bit about Whumpee’s health. After a while they had stopped speaking. Whumper hadn’t even noticed it at first since they were still regularly hearing their voice. Sure it was only wailing, but a voice was a voice.

Whumper had only started noticing Whumpee’s issues when they had stopped eating. Whumper had dropped off a tray of food in the basement like they did every day. They hadn’t even bothered glancing at the chained up captive before leaving them with the food. When Whumper came back a few hours later to take the tray, they were a bit confused.

Whumpee was just sitting there, staring at the bowl in front of them. They hadn’t even moved from where they were a few hours prior. They just gazed at the food with that hundred-yard stare. Like there wasn’t a bowl of now cold oatmeal in front of them. Whumper tried getting their attention a few time. They snapped their fingers in front of their face and asked why they were wasting food. Whumpee just slowly looked up and tilted their head. They looked between Whumper and the bowl a few times before slowly crawling to it and starting to blindly eat.

Whumper started paying a bit more attention to their captive after that point. They started to notice how slow all their motions were, the lack of eye contact, the way they only moved when directly told to. It was a far cry from the snivelling coward Whumpee used to be. Whumper considered just hurting them more. Assuming this behaviour was a result of becoming “too comfortable” - but figured that would just make the problem worse.

So, Whumper finally let them out of the basement. They had even set up a small room for Whumpee with a lock on the outside so they wouldn’t run. But Whumpee never even went into it. Instead opting to hide behind the couch. Whumper was a bit worried at first that it would be easier for them to escape this way, but their worries were quickly quelled when Whumpee refused to leave the corner even when Whumper would leave the room.

Now here Whumper was, trying to coax their captive out of their little hiding spot. “Whumpee come out please.” They said with a soft voice as they patted the top of the couch cushion. “Come on buddy, I’ll give you a snack if you come out.” Whumper added with the most realistic smile they could muster to try and make Whumpee feel safe. Whumpee slowly tilted their head. Their glossy eyes barely being able to focus on the person in front of them. Whumper couldn’t even tell if Whumpee had heard, or at least understood them.

Whumper took a deep breath. They didn’t want to force Whumpee out of their spot, but they needed Whumpee to heal and force would just get in the way of that. Commands wouldn’t help either since that would just encourage their mindlessness. “Whumpee, I’ll give you a cookie. Don’t you like cookies?” Whumper didn’t actually know if Whumpee liked cookies but it was worth a try.

Whumper slowly got off of the couch and made their way to the kitchen. The opened a cupboard and looked through it for the old packet of cookies. They grabbed the box and double checked the expiration date. Whumper was never a fan of cookies so all they had was this old package of chocolate chip cookies. They didn’t want to make Whumpee sick from old, moldy cookies. Once Whumper was sure they were edible, they grabbed a few and made their way back to the couch.

“Whumpee…” Whumper said as they peaked over the back of the couch. They waved the handful of cookies in front of Whumpee’s face. “These could be yours if you come out.” Whumper said with a sickly sweet smile. Whumpee continued looking up with a zoned-out stare, but slowly but surely, their eyes focused on the sweet treat in front of them. Whumper smiled and brought the cookies a bit closer to Whumpee.

“I promise theres no strings attached. This yummy cookie could be yours. You just have to come out to get it.” Whumpee considered it for a moment. They slowly reached up to take it. Every time Whumpee reached closer to grab the snack, Whumper pulled it back just a bit. Inch by inch, Whumper slowly lead their captive up and over their small couch prison. Whumpee flopped over the back of the couch and fell onto the cushions. “Great job Whumpee!” Whumper praised as they stuffed a cookie past Whumpee’s lips.

Whumpee’s eyes went wide as a sweet, chocolatey flavour filled their mouth. They quickly chewed the piece in their mouth before opening their jaws for another. Whumper let out a sigh of relief as they fed them another chunk. Whumpee slowly ate the cookie as Whumper fed them. Sure, Whumpee wasn’t emoting as they ate, but they were eating without being directly ordered to, which Whumper considered a victory.

Once Whumpee finished all of their cookies, they just stared at Whumper, waiting for further instructions. Whumper took a few steps back to see what Whumpee would do. Once it clicked for Whumpee that they were out in the open without permission, they quickly - compared to their sluggish norm - scrambled ungracefully back over the couch, landing on the other side with a thump. Whumper rolled their eyes and glanced over the sofa back. “You alright down there?” They asked with an exasperated look.

Whumpee just tucked their knees to their chest and curled up on their side. Whumper wished they could have kept Whumpee out of the corner for a bit longer, but progress was progress. Maybe tomorrow Whumpee could eat more than a sweet treat without an order, or even say their first word in months.

Taglist~~ @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[whumpitisthen]

I don't know if you take a request!

But, can you write about Whumpee with Stockholm Syndrome who went back to Whumper after finally escaped for a month?

I take requests yes but you must know it takes me four years to come up with a single draft for anything so be prepared to wait an indefinite amount of time!! I tried to keep it short and idk if ive succeeded!! Here you go!!

No Longer a Lie

Their goodbye was the same as a soldier’s going off to war. He may never return, and even if he does, he would return a different man. A sombre, yet loving valediction.

Her smile is watery and proud. The kind, thoughtful, caring old lady that found him that day and took him in believes that he is going home today. He had told her his parents have finally arranged everything ready for him to return. He had explained that they didn't expect him to suddenly show up in their life after so many years again, that they lived abroad and needed time to get his papers in order, that they cannot wait to see him again. She believes he is going to heal and find himself, and be safe under the care of his family.

He was lying. He doesn't have a family. He had lied to this sweet, innocent lady so she would not try to stop him from what he is about to do. She thinks she saved him, and that he is going home. To some extent, that is true.

She packed him a backpack full of snacks, spare clothes, even some money. She bought him new clothes to wear. She walked him to the train station, though her rickety hips barely allowed her to stay standing long enough. She watched him get on the train and waved at him all the way up until they could no longer see each other through the window as the platform grew further and further away.

He only cried once he was sure she could not see.

He retraces every step he took a month prior to this day. He minds the gap, turns every corner. He recognises a flower shop in the suburbs. The large, tilted tree in the park. A large graffiti under the cement bridge is his next sign that he is going the right direction.

Soon, the houses become overwhelmingly familiar. A few more blocks, and he will be there. His legs ache, the new, cheap shoes he got from her rub at his heels with every step, bloodying the rough fabric. He could not stop his journey if he wanted. He feels his very heart dragging him along on a leash, back to where he left a month ago, back to where he escaped.

There it is. A secluded house at the edge of town, fenced off with barbed wire and kept in perfect condition. His soles burn, but his pace only quickens. He knows those chain links. He knows those barred windows. He knows that godforsaken garage door. He is home. He made it.

Oh, she would have never let him go if he told her that he considered this prison his home.

Reaching the outer gate, the intimate feeling of fear choking him arises like an old friend. The last time he saw this place from the outside he only got to for a moment in his haste. A glance over his shoulder in the middle of the night, and then he was gone like a ghost. He wonders what all has changed. He doubts anything has.

He hesitates. They will be angry at him, he's sure. So, so angry. He left without warning, without saying anything. To think he thought he could leave without repercussions instead of owning up to his mistake and suffering the consequences. Now, here he is thirty days later, crawling back on trembling legs, in strange clothing and some fat under his skin to beg for forgiveness. He is the most ungrateful, pathetic creature he can imagine. He's sure he will be told as much once the door opens.

He steels himself and presses the bell. It goes off twice in quick succession thanks to his twitchy fingers. He cannot tell if the overwhelming nerves strangling him are of worry or excitement.

He has been away for too long, trying to function in a place he is no longer meant for. He craves this hell like one would their heaven. He knows it's wrong, he knows he could leave right now and go back to the old lady that took care of him like her own son and he could relearn how to be a person and it would all be okay. He rationalises that it's far too late for that.

The ten seconds that pass in silence after the bell chimes are agony spreading over an eternity. His fingers cramp with how fiercely he fists them to his palm. Eventually, however, the entrance opens, and out steps the devil himself.

He stops on the porch, pausing to make sure his eyes aren't playing tricks on him, but he then quickly crosses the distance between the two of them to jerk the gate open and embrace him before his lost darling could even rant off his apology that he has been writing in his head ever since he first took a step outside of this house.

They stand in silence for a long minute.

This moment feels absolutely perfect. Better than he ever expected it to feel; just the most idyllic scene that goes exactly as he had dreamed it would. The hug feels better than he had imagined, so warm and tight and all-encompassing. His red nose finds its way into the crook of the man's neck, nestling in there. He breathes in deep, taking in the smell of comfort, of the wonderfully known and expected; the familiarity.

“I’ve told you so many times. You do not belong out there anymore.”

In reality, what he had experienced with his freedom was not joy, but layers upon layers of anxiety. Everything was new, everything was unusual, everything was terrifying. What he had grown so used to during his years in this house he threw away in blind greed, wanting more from life than the perfect world his owner had made for him.

At first the freedom was elating. Long forgotten concepts like privacy and control had returned and excited him. But then his new circumstances became tiring. One or two core differences became dozens of alien rules he had to rememorise. Then came shame at experiencing such trouble with something that is meant to be no issue at all for anyone; anyone but him. Normal people don't expect perfect obedience in return for tolerance. Normal people don't have to ask for permission to eat when a plate is put in front of them. Normal people don't have to keep their owners content. Normal people aren't scared of their owners. Normal people don't have owners. These are all things he had to get used to, among the sea of other more obscure examples.

The final straw was his curse of worthlessness. He felt he did not deserve any of this. He ran away. He broke so many rules. He was having awful trouble with his new rules. He was ungrateful. And yet, the old lady only showed kindness and care. No punishments, no threats, not even any mocking or insults. Just relentless, angelic forgiveness. She would not hurt him even when he offered, even when he had asked. He could not handle this; he felt like he was going to go insane with guilt.

His owner had told him this countless times, but only now does he truly understand what he had meant, — the complicated, scary life of a free person just isn't suited for him. Not anymore. He is different. He cannot be left alone for long. He cannot function without clear cut rules, routine or punishments. He doesn't think like everyone else. Above everything, what was killing him every day the most was yearning for his owner. He needs his owner. He cannot be away from him, he depends on him too much. He missed him every day, feeling dumber and dumber each day for being so cowardly.

But now, now he is here again, in his owner's capable hands. Everything will make sense again, all his mistakes will be fixed and he can spend the rest of his life atoning for his naïve stupidity. He will take being locked up in this birdcage for the rest of his life. He will take the sharp, unending burn of punishments each time he slips up. He will take it all without a word if that's what his owner wants. He missed him more than should be possible. He cries. He is so happy.

His relief is crushed as soon as the door locks behind him, and he is once again all alone with the man. His freshly washed hair is grabbed and he is dragged all the way down to the source of all of his nightmares, sent to the floor viciously. His crying turns desperate. He is barely left time to gasp out a plea before he is grabbed again and tied up much too tightly, rope burning over old, thick scarring along his wrists. His cries are muffled with a gag, and his tears are soaked up with a blindfold.

He becomes inconsolable then. He knew this would happen, he knew he would be punished, he knows he deserves it — but this is all too sudden, juxtaposed horribly by the tenderness of that hug that he waited a month for and needed more than he ever realised. Now it's like his owner is a different man, mercilessly restraining him and not saying a word, just like when he is truly furious. He didn't seem angry at all before. His owner seemed as relieved as he did.

He can tell he is dropped off in the middle of the basement by how cold it is and how his skin catches on the drain under him. He is pulled to kneel, and while he tries his best to obey every wordless order, his limbs have become useless jelly, flowing in all the wrong directions.

The punishment is severe. So severe that he is certain he won't survive it. The first to break are his legs. He might not ever be able to walk again, much less run away from consequences. His arms are wrenched behind and up until his shoulders pop, rendering all his limbs useless. They are left there like that, hanging off him like parasites that feed on his agony. He is beaten with something heavy, made of iron. That breaks several more bones, his ribs mostly. His screams start dying down then, not for a lack of trying. The gag muffles every apology he sobs into it, ensuring he will only be able to say sorry once his owner has decided he is truly sorry.

He is reduced to a bag of flesh to be abused. He cannot fight any of it, he cannot see any of it and he cannot stop any of it. He has never felt so much like an object before in his life, not with the old lady, not prior escaping, not prior to being caught. Still, he never even thinks about regretting coming back. He never holds anything against his master, he never holds a grudge or resentment. He deserves this for disobeying him, and his owner deserves his pain as compensation. He deserves this, he deserves this, please, please let him say he deserves all of it and see how he regrets running. He needs to say it, he needs this to end, he wants nothing more than to grovel at the man's feet and sob over and over how worthless he is and how he will never ever try anything like this again.

The only way this can end is if he is forgiven, but he cannot be forgiven until he has apologised.

The blindfold is never removed, not like his bindings and the gag. This distresses him greatly even as he is cuddled in his owner's arms once again, exhausted. The blindfold only ever comes out for the worst of his mistakes. When his master is angry with him. When a simple slap or two or a couple days without food isn't enough. The fact that it is still on even hours after he was finally allowed to beg for forgiveness — he just cannot relax. He supposes that's probably the reason why it's still on. He can’t just forget about what he did so easily with one round of torment. He hopes it will be taken off soon, but at the same time, he has no hope for it coming off in the coming days.

He doesn't even know if he has suffered enough yet. This small thing could very well signal that he will be atoning for this transgression for up to another month; just as long as he had spent away from here. The thought terrifies him enough to sob brokenly into his owner's chest, huddled up against him as he is. He’s rewarded with a light pet. He whispers a thank you.

The man pauses at that, causing his body to tense in preparation of more pain. Wonderfully, however, all that comes is more gentleness, a hand that has hurt him so many times now digging down to the roots of his hair and scratching in a pleasant rhythm. He has never been more thankful. The smallest of kindnesses from his owner are enough for him to forget all about the month of constant mercy from the old lady that took care of him unconditionally. Something must be wrong with him. He doesn't think about that for too long.

“I am so glad you came back,” — his master murmurs.

No one loves him like his master loves him. The old lady… was stupid. She was an idiot. Who would take in a stranger off the street, half-dead, and spoil him like she did? That's moronic. Her kindness — it doesn't matter. Any grain of sweetness from this man means more than a whole year of hers. He loves him. She was just a dumb old lady.

He feels awful for thinking this. His brain is at battle with his heart, trying to convince himself that this is what he is meant to be, that this is right, while feeling a dark emptiness building in his lungs.

Later, once his body is no longer useless and he can do as he is told, he does so. When he is told to clean, he cleans. When he is told to stay still, he stays still. When he is told to hold his breath, he holds his breath. Neither of them mention it. His owner doesn't tease him for falling back into old habits so soon. He doesn't even think to resist or think for himself. This is their norm. Nothing out of the ordinary. How it is supposed to be. Every night, he tells himself he is happy and loved. He feels his owner's arms around him, holding him close, pushing on his dark, painful bruises and he thanks him for allowing him to stay. His master tells him he loves him, and he smiles, saying the same thing.

And he means it.

~

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @morning-star-whump @whumprince