#queen whumper

[whump-queen]

sabotage

a carewhumper who’s constantly engineering situations for whumpee to need them, to run to them crying, to fall to their knees, broken and shattered and so easy to convince that all they need is whumper.

- slashing their tire so they’ll have to call whumper for a ride

- paying dudes to go rob and beat them up so they’ll be bloody and broken and weak and whumper can happen to ‘stumble upon them’ since they were just in the neighborhood…

- sabotaging whumpee’s finances (stealing their rent checks, running up their credit cards) to get them kicked out of whatever meager housing they’ve managed to rent. make them destitute. desperate. and all whumper has to do is waltz in with open arms, maybe a warm coat, and an offer whumpee can’t afford to refuse.

whumpee just doesn’t know why these things keep happening to them. whumper doesn’t help of course; their every word implies it was all whumpee’s fault. that maybe if they weren’t so careless and reckless with these things, maybe they—

no, whumper should just take care of these things for whumpee from now on. that’s what’s best, since whumpee has clearly proven they aren’t responsible enough to manage money, or shopping, let alone a job or really any human responsibilities.

after all, whumpee’s just a broken thing, and only whumper can put them back together.

only whumper will let them break down. only whumper can make them safe. only whumper can hold them close, warm, and just let whumpee collapse into their arms and sob against their neck until they finally drift to sleep.

[whumperer-86]

Under the Queen's Umbrella ep01

Today was the first episode of the drama and Our beloved In hyuk played the crown prince role ,, he suddenly fainted in his mother's the Queen's arms

[generic-whumperz]

Nicki Manaj giving Whumper 💅

[painsandconfusion]

Forced Comfort

Because who doesn't like a little bit of intimate whumper vibes?

[Prompt Masterpost]

Whumpee wrapped up in a blanket. The soft fabric hides the fact that their hands are still bound behind their back.

Gentle fingers brushing the hair from Whumpee’s face - carefully peeling it back through the sheen of sweat that’s left.

“Shhh…you’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you anymore..”

Kissing tears from the corners of Whumpee’s eyes.

Whumper keeping Whumpee sedated between sessions to 'help them cope'.

“Hold still- hold still or I’ll start again.”

Pinning a squirming Whumpee in an embrace. Grip tightening the more they struggle. 

Whumpee being so tired. So so so very tired. They can’t help but lean into the gentle touch. 

Whumper ignoring every shiver and twitch that accompanies the gentle pets they give their broken toy.

“Nnnnono-sst…d-on’ t ouchme-!”

Whumpee thrashing to the point of hyperventilation as Whumper wraps them up in blankets. The panic in their eyes ever so slowly fading as they realize they’re not being hurt anymore.

Whumpee desperately not trying to lean into it or accept the comfort. They don’t want it from them - don’t want to melt into the hands that ripped screams from them just a few minute before. But they need something. And Whumper knows it.

“Look at you. Pathetic little thing~”

Shoving Whumpee into a bath to trigger some kind of calming response. Whumpee just thinks they’re going to be drowned. …….maybe they will be. Just a little bit.

Whumper combing a hand through Whumpee’s hair - soft and rhythmic and sweet - as they carve into Whumpee.

“Shhh..just focus on me. Don’t look at  it- just look at me. Listen to my voice. You’re doing so good, little one.”

Kisses peppering over Whumpee’s cheeks, lips, forehead, brows, jaw, etc as their face puckers up, trying to twist away. 

A hug that looks gentle until you notice Whumper’s hand fisted in Whumpee’s hair. Keeping them exactly in place.

“Don’ don t t-ouch me- STOP-”

Drugging Whumpee to ‘help with the nerves’. Watching their panicked sobs slowly peter out into nothing as they stare miserably at their captor. 

“Make the most of this. We start again in the morning.”

[Prompt Masterpost]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35 @scribbelle)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[fallenangelicss]

Sweet And Spice

PAIRING | Bridget | Queen of Hearts/James Hook

WORD COUNT | 1957

SUMMARY | Bridget's gone missing. Or at least, Red and Chloe can't find her after they get split up for a class they've been forced into. Worried something irreversible might happen while she's out of their sight, they recruit Ella to help locate her. What they uncover is far from what they thought they'd find.

RATING | General Audiences

WARNING/TAG(S) | No Archive Warnings Apply

A/N | First time writing for Descendants, hope you all like it!

EVENTS | @eclipsingbingo | Playing With Someone's Hair | @fandombingo | Unexpected Visitor | @anyfandomfluffbingo | "It's Not Like This With Them" | @multifandom-flash | The Jabberwocky | Heal The Cutie | I Did What I Had To Do | Don't You Dare Pity Me | @fandom-free-bingo | Whumper Turned Caretaker | Failure To Remain Impartial | Nervous Laughter | @character-a-character-b | Rivals To Lovers

AO3 LINK | Read Here

“Hey, Ella,” Red called as she saw the younger version of her newfound friend's mum walk out of one of her classes, a hand raised to wave her over. Chloe’s brows pinched together as her eyes scanned between her mother and Red, attempting to decipher what Red could possibly want with her mum instead of her own. Once Ella stepped over to them, Chloe shook herself out of her thoughts and shot Ella a smile, both of them waiting for Red to speak up once again. “Have you seen Bridget? We haven’t seen her since the whole Uliana incident.”

“No, I haven’t seen her either come to think of it,” Ella murmured, taking a quick scan around the hallway the three of them were in before a concerned look made its way onto her face. Chloe couldn’t tell what that look could mean, unexpectedly foreign to everything about this version of her mum. “But I can help you look for her since my next class is with her.”

“Great,” Red exclaimed, a large grin spreading across her face as she hovered around Ella. Still unused to the layout of Auradon or Merlin Academy, Red didn’t know where to begin looking, leaving that up to Ella to decide. Chloe may have a bit more luck in the sense of the direction, visiting Auradon occasionally to see her brother whenever there was an event taking place at the school, but it was still vastly different to what she had come to know. “Do you have any ideas where she could be? Any places that she goes to when she needs to think or… something?”

“Have you checked her dorm?” Ella asked to which both girls nodded in response to, Briget’s dorm being the first place they checked once they were able to get away from one of the classes they had been roped into. That made Ella’s face contort a bit more as she thought of all the unusual places Bridget might be lurking in between classes. She must’ve had a free period, Ella thought. There wasn’t enough time in between classes to hang out or do whatever, there was hardly enough to even go to your locker and get the book you needed. “She might be in the courtyard somewhere. She normally sits out there when she's looking for a new recipe to try out.”

“That’s perfect,” Chloe said, ready to start walking and go looking for Bridget. With how close Castlecoming was, they couldn’t afford for her to leave their sight. As Chloe walked through the hallway, a loud cough caught her attention. Spinning on her heel to see what was up, she came face to face with Ella who was staring at her with a raised brow. Right, Merlin Acadamy was different to Auradon Prep. With a sheepish smile, Chloe asked, “Would you like to lead the way?”

“Sure,” Ella responded with a crooked smile before starting off in the right direction, leading the newcomers to where Bridget could potentially be. They walked for a few moments in silence, Red and Chloe slightly behind Ella’s pacing as they eyed one another, attempting to have a silent conversation as to what Bridget may be doing and how this could be related to the prank that created their future when Ella turned around abruptly, walking backwards as she asked, “Why do you need to find Bridget anyway?”

“Uh,” Red floundered for a second, trying to think of a lie on the spot while Chloe was two seconds away from revealing the truth about everything. The longer they took to answer, the more suspicious Ella grew, her eyes narrowing a bit as her pace slowed, forcing them to shorten their steps to not overtake Ella. “She said she’d show us around to all of our classes but we didn’t know where to meet her after each one so we’re a bit lost.”

“Makes sense,” Ella nodded, spinning back around to lead them out of the school's building and into the large open space the grounds had. Red’s eyes instantly began scanning the area for her mum, hoping to find some pink peeking out from around a corner so she could relax and know her mum was safe. “I could also show you guys around if you ever needed it. Normally they have someone give new students a tour if they come late in the year but they must’ve forgotten to this time.”

“Yeah, must’ve,” Chloe trailed off, joining Red in her search. Ella looked to be the only one who wasn’t actively looking for Bridget, just leading them around and hoping they would stumble upon her, though Ella must’ve had to find Bridget on numerous occasions to not be concerned at all as to where she might be. “Does Bridget disappear often? You just seem really calm even though we don’t know where she is.”

“Bridget’s a big girl, she can take care of herself,” Ella easily supplied, shrugging her shoulders as they continued their search. The more they looked, the more Chloe was beginning to lose hope that Bridget might be in the courtyard, though the grounds seemed to stretch on for ages. If they didn’t find her soon then they might have to try a different location, though Chloe wasn’t sure how much longer Ella could stay with them before she was late for class. They had already been gone for quite a while so there was no doubt in Chloe’s mind that classes had already begun. “That and this isn’t the first time she’s lost track of time and missed a couple minutes of class trying to find something new to bake. I normally always find her in the same spot which should be right around here.”

Just as Ella said it, the three of them rounded a corner, in front of them but still a few metres away was Bridget sitting at a picnic bench, her skirt fanning around her seat as a closed cooking book was placed in the space next to her. Chloe could see the side of her face, a smile on her face as she looked down at something she hadn’t yet taken notice of. Getting ready to call out to the cheerful girl, Chloe was suddenly yanked back by her jacket, the breath leaving her as she was pulled behind the wall they just stepped around. 

“What was that for?” Chloe hissed, looking over her shoulder to where Red was clutching onto her. 

“Look,” Red whispered while pointing at Bridget. Chloe’s head spun back around to see what she was trying to indicate to look at. Squinting her eyes to try and help, Chloe was about to raise another question when she finally spotted what Red was trying to show her. Kneeled just in front of Bridget was Captain Hook. Chloe’s jaw dropped at the sight of Bridget’s hands being held by James Hook as the two spoke to one another.

“We’re too far away to hear what they’re saying,” Ella murmured, crouched on the floor as her head stuck around the corner and tried to get a better look. It was to no avail though as the picnic table and Bridget blocked most of Captain Hook. “We need to get closer?”

“How?” Chloe asked, not seeing any hiding points they could use to their advantage. Chloe didn’t get any form of response as Ella took off in a crouched run to a nearby tree, hiding behind it before Bridget or Hook could get wind of her actions. Chloe was again about to ask another question before Red followed in Ella’s actions, making quick work of getting to the large oak tree and hiding behind it. The two of them looked at Chloe expectantly, waiting for her to join them. Murmuring to herself, Chloe said before she made a quick sprint to the tree, “Here goes nothing.”

Taking quick steps, Chloe almost slammed into Red in her efforts to get behind the tree without being noticed. It seemed it didn’t matter what they did though as Bridget and Hook were too caught up in one another to pay attention to them. 

“You know,” Hook started, reaching a hand up to curl some of Bridget’s hair around his finger. The grin on Bridget’s face immediately widened at the action, a trickle of nervous laughter escaping her lips as she waited for him to finish his sentence. At the same time that Bridget’s laughter reached their ears, Red stiffened next to them, clearly not liking the sight in front of them. “The two of us are going to be awfully late to our next class.”

“If he doesn’t back away I’m going to feed him to the Jabberwocky,” Red hissed, hands scrunching into tight fists.

“That’s okay,” Bridget’s voice came out in an airy sigh, almost leaning into Hook’s hand. She looked completely smitten, like she was hanging onto Hook’s every action and word. “As long as I get to spend time with you away from the others then it doesn’t matter.”

“About that,” Hook sighed, backing up from Bridget only slightly, his hand leaving her hair to once again fiddle with her delicate fingers. Bridget’s brows furrowed at the unexpected retreat, a sombre expression captivating Hook’s face and making her more aware of what was happening. “I’m sorry about the whole Uliana thing that happened earlier. I told her it was pointless to steal your flamingo feathers but you know Uliana; she always has to be doing something she considers wicked.”

“Oh, that’s whatever,” Bridget easily brushed off, her shoulders bunching up in a shrug as she acted like being chased around the school by an angry Uliana who had been turned partly into a flamingo was no big deal. “I tried to warn her but she just didn’t listen.”

“Maybe next time you can save me one of your cupcakes before they get ruined?” Hook suggested, making Bridget grin shyly and her legs to swing back in little kicks.

“Why is he acting like this in front of my mum- Bridget? In front of Bridget?” Red said, having to save herself since they were in front of Ella. The two of them must be starting to look really suspicious since Chloe had also messed up in front of Ella, accidentally calling her mum as well, although she hadn’t been able to save it as gracefully.

“He must not be able to act this way in front of his own friends,” Chloe suggested, baffled by the turn of events that was playing out in front of them.

“Whatever the reason, I don’t like it.”

“Maybe we should leave them be for a bit,” Ella warned, her eyes stuck to the way Bridget and Hooked were glued to one another, their eyes never straying from the other as they spoke, secluded from everyone else. “It feels like we’re intruding.”

“I’ll make sure I bake extra next time,” One of Bridget’s hands lightly flicked to the cookbook by her side, its cover a mixture of pastels. Her lashes seemed to be fluttering wildly at Hook as a soft blush coated her cheeks. Hook’s face remained a mixture of content and smug as his thumb ran along the back of the hand that Bridget let him keep. Shyly, Bridget offered, “Maybe you can help me taste test, James?” “Yep, definitely time to leave,” Red announced, grabbing onto Chloe’s arm and pulling her away before she could hear any objections. Ella chased after them once she realised they were gone, but not after watching Bridget and Hook for a few extra moments. Before Ella caught up enough for her to hear, Red mumbled to Chloe, “I’m not watching as my mum flirts with Captain Hook.”

[whump-queen]

Break their ankles

An intrusive whump thought of the day

Content: broken bones, intimate whumper, medical whump, ptsd, brief needle & drug mention.

A whumpee with broken ankles desperately crawling for the door, clawing at it uselessly after whumper has slammed it shut, sobbing and begging to be let go.

Or trying to crawl away from whumper, painfully dragging their limp, broken bones along the floor behind them.

An amused whumper sitting and watching it happen, laughing at whumpee’s pathetic attempts to get away, knowing that whenever they’ve decided their captive has gotten far enough, they can yank them back by the chain around their neck and drag them back over with ease. What’re they gonna do, fight back?

Whumpee being forced to rely on whumper for every little thing despite loathing them with every fiber of their being.

Whumper having to carry them everywhere (bridal style)

Bonus points if it’s an intimate whumper and they scoop them up and coo sweet things into whumpee’s ear all “aw, poor sweet thing, don’t worry, I’ve got you,” While whumpee sobs hopelessly into their captor’s chest, disgusted with the closeness and absolutely horrified and ashamed at how helpless they feel like this.

Or maybe whumpee tries to claw their way out of their captor’s arms, and whumper just drops them, laughing at how useless and pathetic they look when they collapse in a crying heap on the floor, unable to go anywhere without whumper’s help.

More bonus points if the bones don’t heal properly and they can never walk quite right again, or if standing or walking for too long causes sharp pains to shoot up through their ankles and they collapse from the agony.

If they ever get a recovery arc, having to get their ankles rebroken and reset to heal properly— The sensation of their ankles breaking all over again bringing back horribly traumatic flashbacks, feeling like they’re back with whumper again, that they’re being tortured again, until they’re screaming and begging and calling the doctors sir and sobbing desperately to be let go. The medical staff is horrified.

And maybe they’re writhing around and thrashing so much that they have to be restrained and sedated in order for the medical staff to reset their freshly broken bones.

A nurse jamming a needle into their neck and emptying an entire syringe into their bloodstream with an “It’s alright, sweetheart, this is for your own good.”

Whumpee in a full-scale flashback begging through tears when they feel the needle, “please, please no— please sir, please don’t, please don’t do this— I— I’ve been good— please I— I can’t—please-“ until the sedative kicks in and their head lolls to the side.

Feel free to add your own prompts/ thoughts! this trope won’t leave my head rn

More prompts like this

[a-crumb-of-whump]

🩸Whump Resources🩸

Starting a whump blog

What to include in a good whumpblr intro

How to start a whump blog

How to start a whump blog #2

How to start a whump blog #3

What is whump?

How to write whumpy scenes

Advice for new original content writers

Discouragement & Motivational advice

How to deal with hate/unwanted citicism

How to deal with discouragement from lack of interaction

What to do when your whump has lost its bite

How to start writing for yourself

How to overcome anxiety surrounding writing whump

The road to success when participating in whump events

Whump advice

How to write blood loss

Writing vivid discriptions 101

Less common illnesses to use in your sickfics

Facts about general anesthesia

Whump tips: Chronic sleep deprivation

Different types of gags (non-kink)

OC advice

How to start writing for an OC

How to introcude your OC

How to write fanfiction/oc content if you've never written before

How to make your OC feel more genuine/real

Tips for naming OC's

Whump stories

Delicate by @whumpcloud

Kane & Jim by @whumpsday

Eden by @zillastar13

Silence by @whumpshaped

Killing, stalking... whumping? by @/whumpshaped

Kane & Raiza by @whump-queen & @/whumpsday

Angel On The Wall by @emmettnet

Things End | People Change by @/whumpcloud

Our Man Flint by @/zillastar13

Memes & Games

Big blog, little blog

Whump games and userboxes

Whump games & userboxes #2

He's a fine looking man - would love to see him in a fit of despair

Falling asleep to a whump scenario vs. falling asleep to something normal

More violence

I write whump vs. i write about characters recovering from trauma

Nice blorbo. Would be a real shame if someone were to put them in situations

The creepiest whumper that ever did creep

Introducing a new whump concept to my OC's

Hello, my name is whumper. you piqued my interest. prepare to cry.

Whump alignment chart

Whumper: Don't do that

Whump blogs (Disclaimer: not all of these are whump only blogs - some of them include some other things as well <3)

@whumpshaped

@whumpsday

@whump-queen

@oddsconvert

@zillastar13

@whumpcloud

@whumperofworlds

@emmettnet

@burntcoffeewhump

@pigeonwhumps

@whumpster-dumpster

@whumpwillow

@thewhumpyprintingpress (they release whump books written by members of the tumblr whump community themselves, and all proceeds from those books go to charities <3)

Hope this helps!

[whumpshaped]

tw conditioning, pet whump, captivity, starvation

"What are you?"

"Fuck off," Whumpee spat. Whumper looked unfazed. They weren't the one starved and dehydrated, of course, why would they be fazed?

"What are you?"

"Just give me the fucking water, man! Dead, dead is what I am if you don't fucking give me that!"

"What are you?"

If Whumpee had any water left in their body, they would've cried. This was so messed up and stupid. They resolved not to answer this time, because to Whumper's credit, at least they never repeated their stupid question if they didn't give a 'wrong' answer.

The silence stretched between them, only ever unnerving one of them. The one who had something to lose. Whumpee's eyes were fixed on the water bottle, and they subconsciously licked their mouth. They were so thirsty.

"A pet," they muttered eventually. Whumper didn't look smug at all, nor pleased.

"What are you?"

"I said the fucking thing! A pet! A fucking pet! Can I get my fucking water, please?"

It was infuriating. Like talking to a goddamn brick wall without a single emotion or response.

"What are you?" they repeated for the thousandth time, always calm, always gentle.

Whumpee took a deep breath and thought about the refreshing, cold water sliding down their throat. "I'm a pet, sir."

The small bottle was tossed into their cell, and they scrambled to get the cap off and empty it immediately, as fast as they possibly could. It wasn't cold at all, but it was refreshing, it was life, and their life was all they had left after being stripped of everything else.

"See you in a couple days?" they mocked. "When you try to pull this out of me again? Because I'll let you know right now, if you think I'll just start answering your stupid questions after this, you're an idiot."

Whumper extended a hand, and Whumpee rolled the bottle across the floor so they could take it away. Whumper grabbed it with a small smile, the first Whumpee had ever seen from them. "See, this is progress," they said softly, holding up the empty bottle. "The things you do for me without hesitation. It's all about the little things. Right now, the big thing is admitting what you are. Soon, that will be a little thing you do for me without thinking, because you'll have another big thing to resist. Isn't that beautiful?"

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[whumperer-86]

Coughing blood (dying 😢) whumptober2022 Day23

Under the queen's umbrella ☔ Korean drama wp04

[sleepyiswhumping]

Freak, 2

Content: Blood, Noncon Touching, Noncon Kissing, Creepy Whumper, Intimate Whumper, Defiant Whumpee, Violence, Choking

~~~~~~~~~~

Unsettled, Whumpee stared nervously at Whumper.

“You’re a fucking freak, you know that? Unhinged piece of shit.”

Whumper chuckled, kneeling. They ran their hand gently down Whumpee’s face, lifting their chin with a finger, so Whumpee was looking into their eyes again. 

“Darling, you have the prettiest eyes. I might just keep them, when I’m done with you.” Whumper remarked, staring deeply into Whumpee’s eyes, Whumper’s icy gaze piercing through Whumpee. 

Whumpee couldn’t bear it any longer. They flung their head forward again, trying to get Whumper away. Whumper was ready this time, however, and, sliding their hand past Whumpee’s chin, they caught Whumpee by the throat effortlessly, hand wrapping tightly, cutting off their airway.

“Oh, baby. You’re so feisty,” Whumper teased, as they leaned closer. 

They licked their lips, then pressed them against Whumpees, their iron grasp preventing Whumpee from pulling away. At Whumpee’s groans of protest, they purred, then dug their teeth into Whumpee’s lower lip. Whumpee’s groans turned into shrieks as Whumper sank their teeth into Whumpee’s skin, biting harder and harder, until their teeth split the flesh, filling both of their mouths with warm, salty, metallic blood. 

“Oh, what’s the matter, darling? I thought you liked pain? Or is it just when I get hurt?” Whumper pouted, licking the blood off their lips. 

Whumpee screamed, thrashing, trying to get out of Whumper’s grip, but their screeching faded as Whumper tightened their grasp, squeezing Whumpee’s throat tightly. 

“Come now, don’t make such a fuss. We both need our fun.” Whumper hissed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Freak, 1

Saw deranged Whumper in the comments. This deranged? I'm having fun writing this, despite it not being the best and quite an odd dynamic.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump, @lthrboy Also tagging: @makemake22 and @whump-queen. You two seemed QUITE interested in this, but lmk if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist proper for the next parts :D

[honeycollectswhump]

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided. 

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor. 

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long. 

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship. 

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship. 

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her. 

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering. 

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value. 

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone. 

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision. 

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for. 

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it. 

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up. 

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching. 

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around. 

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed. 

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it. 

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes. 

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork. 

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use. 

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all. 

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else. 

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through. 

Bone. 

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done. 

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know. 

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

[forwhump]

a/n; I’m sorry I keep posting 😭😭😭 remember when I hated it more than anything ?? now I can’t stop

I actually have a list of requests now (!!!!! 🥹 !!!!!!) & I swear I cross my heart I pinky promise if you asked me for something I WILL post for you !!! if you were kind enough to request smth from me I’ll actually write & post anything you want forever just not chronologically in any form at all, that’s all LOL

I found this first when I was perusing the wren folder so that’s why this one is up but NEXT TIME, next time it will be softer & there will be caretaking I promise

just a little bit of wren’s first night in the district first, that’s all <3 (spoilers : it’s horrible) @ doughnut this one’s for you 😚

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, rape, noncon, humiliation, psychological torture, sexual torture, misgendering, transphobia

sexual servant whumpee, creepy whumper

There are a glorious few moments, when Wren first opens his eyes, that he isn’t scared.

He’s in pain — the pain starts before consciousness does. But he isn’t scared. It’s a small mercy.

Instead, he wakes to that pain. Groggy, it’s hard to tell exactly what hurts, a sort of fog much the same as trying to wake from unconsciousness. As he wakes, as the fog of sleep clears, the pain settles and Wren couldn’t tell exactly what was hurting because everything hurts. He groans, and even his jaw hurts. He tries to groan, anyway, but the sound is muffled because he’s gagged, a strip of cloth pulled tight and knotted at the back of his head.

For a second, for a split second, Wren doesn’t really think about it. Still barely conscious, he barely considers the gag, and thinks, instead, of the knot at the back of his head. He can feel where it’s tangled in his hair, tugging at his scalp with each exhale. He’s face down, and as he blinks his eyes open, he doesn’t really notice the concrete, but the sheet of his hair.

Wren doesn’t wear his hair down. Wren hasn’t worn his hair down since he was a very small child, a child beauty pageant queen, and his mother would spend hours brushing and oiling and meticulously braiding it for him. He doesn’t think he’s had a haircut since only a few years after that. By the time he was old enough to decide for himself what to do with his hair, he was proud of it. He has great hair. But he also has really long hair, and it’s a pain in the ass. Really impractical, at times.

This is what Wren thinks about. He doesn’t wear his hair down. Why is his hair down? It’s pooling on the concrete around him, and why would he have —

The concrete?

Everything hurts.

Wren’s gagged.

That’s when he gets scared.

It’s the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

Wren’s been scared before. He would be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t. He’s never been scared like this. He’s never felt anything like this.

It’s an infection, a parasite that burrows deep into his chest, into his core, and it spreads through him quickly, churning through his bloodstream, just under his skin. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t notice, not right away, that it isn’t only because he’s scared. It’s only when he rolls onto his back that he realizes just how cold it is, so cold his breath clouds the air above him. His hands are tied behind his back, and he traps them against the ground beneath him as he rolls over. It’s why his arms, his wrists, his hands, his shoulders ache — his hands are tied so tightly at his back his fingertips are buzzing with static.

There’s only a single light in the ceiling above him, something fluorescent. Its glow is orange and its flicker, irregular, buzzing with shorted electricity. Something starts to burn low in Wren’s stomach, and the contrast to the cold in here and in his bloodstream is enough to make him gag.

The room is empty, except for him and that fluorescent bulb. It’s concrete on all sides, an empty concrete cell, and the only door is an iron slat carved out of one wall, the bolted, armed doors of a military hanger.

Wren can taste his heartbeat. His hair is down. What the fuck is —

And he can still barely keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, he braces his hands behind himself and manages to push himself up from the floor, not far but far enough that he can lean heavily against the wall across from that door. His skirt is flouncy, red and white gingham layered with tulle, and it settles in a fan across his lap as he sits up. His eyes close on their own, too heavy to be —

They fly open again just as quickly. His skirt?

No, it’s —

No, he’s not wearing a skirt. It’s a dress, and only then just barely. It’s short, and it’s so tight around Wren’s waist that it hurts, and it hurts a little worse each time he breathes. It’s a child’s dress, and something about that makes Wren more uneasy than anything else. He tries to swallow, and it makes him sob.

He’s wearing cowboy boots. They aren’t his boots.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s so fucking cold.

Wren tries to stand, leaning his weight against the wall, but his legs are shaking too badly and they give out from under him. He falls hard. This time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

He tries to take a deep breath and it catches on something in his throat, something that makes him sob. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but his tears are cool on his face.

What the fuck is going on?

He isn’t so fortunate that he has to wonder for long. Huddled against the wall, shaking so hard he might be pulling himself apart at the seams, Wren cries. He tries to stand, to pull his hands free, to make any sense of his surroundings, and he can’t, and he cries. For a time, the only sounds are the hoarse, panicked hitching of his sobs and the constant, droning hum of the fluorescent bulb above him.

It starts with a chirp, with a weird, technical sort of beep. Wren doesn’t even get the illusion of relief, of somebody coming to his rescue — something is really, really wrong. What’s going on? There’s another beep, then a series of more beeps, and then a sound, through the door, like muffled thunder.

Wren’s heart beats at the back of his throat.

When the door opens, it opens slowly. A man fills the doorway, and he makes Wren’s blood run cold. He looks like something from a nightmare, something so horrible Wren can’t even really fathom him. He doesn’t look real. He can’t be. All black, a monster, the shadow of a monster, except for the cowboy hat, perched low on his head.

For a second, for a naive, blissful second, Wren doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the dreadful black uniform or the macabre silhouette. He doesn’t remember how limp Robin had been.

Beneath his cowboy hat, he’s wearing a mask. It’s just as dreadful as the rest of his uniform, but when he pulls it down, it’s so much worse.

He knocks the wide brim of his hat up, out of the way, grinning down at Wren. Looking up at him, into his face, at his eyes, it’s like looking into the eyes of a violent animal. There’s nothing human in his eyes. Wren recognizes those eyes.

He lurches without meaning to, pressing himself a little harder into the wall.

There’s an intensity in the way he watches Wren that makes Wren’s stomach bubble, acidic. He grins a little wider, and something in the way it pulls at his face is grotesque. Unnatural. He doesn’t have a human smile, either. “Why, good mornin’, sugar,” he says, and he says it with an equally unnatural twang. Is he mocking him? The dress, and the hat, it’s — “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

So, this —

This can’t really be happening, right? It isn’t. This is — what is this? What’s — who is this? What is he — gingham. This is — gingham. Why is Wren wearing gingham? What the fuck is happening? This can’t be happening.

The train of thought must show on his face and the soldier doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it. His grin stretches. The way he angles his head is predatory. Something in Wren’s chest gets very, very tight. “Why, shucks,” he mocks. “You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, girl.”

Heat spreads beneath Wren’s face and trickles down the back of his neck. When the soldier takes a step closer, he flinches back against the wall again. He doesn’t mean to. His hands are shaking at his back, trapped against concrete so cold his fingers are starting to numb with it.

There’s an even colder, unfiltered terror in the way his grin is fixed to his face, in the way he isn’t looking at Wren, not really, but at the hemline of the dress. Gingham. He stalks towards him like a predator, and he crouches down in front of him, too close.

He’s big. He’s massive, in fact. Wren’s never been a particularly big guy, but this guy would tower over even Robin, all six feet and three some odd inches of him. His shoulders are probably double the width of Wren’s own. When he crouches in front of Wren, he blocks the light with the bulk of him, and tears blur his silhouette.

When he speaks again, he speaks without twang, but with a smug, probably militant sort of confidence that makes Wren shiver, try as he might to help it, try as he might not to let this man see. “My men call me Point,” he says, and there’s something almost condescending in how he says it. “You will not. You will not speak unless you’re spoken to. If you must refer to me, you will refer to me as daddy. If you disobey, you’ll be punished, cowgirl, and I won’t take it easy on you. I don’t care how purty you are,” and he puts the accent back on. “Y’understand?”

Wren can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. The lump in his throat is too big. The soldier — Point? — looks like he’s expecting an answer, and Wren doesn’t have one. He can’t breathe. Against the wall, he shakes his head.

“No?” Point asks, sickly sweet.

For such a big guy, he’s fast. He grabs Wren by the face, so fast Wren can’t do anything to stop it. He cracks his head back against the wall behind him so hard that for a moment, Wren loses consciousness again.

It’s a glorious moment, but it’s only a moment. When he blinks his eyes open again, Point is leaning in, leaning too close, and the back of Wren’s head is wet. Warm.

“You will behave,” Point warns, and the accent is gone, replaced by something lethal, unamused. “You will do exactly as I tell you, cowgirl, or I will hurt you very, very badly.” Wren makes a soft, involuntary sound, and that grin flickers back to life on Point’s face, a thousand watts. “I took a big risk taking you out of there, girl. You were supposed to be put down. You owe your life to me, and I’m not about to let you get away without paying your debt.” He lifts the cowboy hat from his head, placing it on Wren’s. Wren shivers, trying to shake it off, and the soldier moves again, that same sort of movement, too quick for the human eye. He grabs Wren by the throat and pins him back against the wall. “Behave.” He thumbs slowly along the underside of Wren’s jaw as he holds him there, and the way Wren’s skin crawls almost aches. His fingertip catches on the gag. “Now I’m going to take this out,” he explains, “because I want to hear you beg. But if you wanna scream, cowgirl, you can go right ahead. Y’know why?”

Wren doesn’t want to know. He tries to sob, and it gets stuck beneath Point’s hand.

Point, who angles his head and whistles.

The door swings open again barely a full second later, and it’s still more than enough time for the fear to build, and build, and build, and burst into something that Wren shudders with, so hard his ribs rattles against each other. Another soldier fills the doorframe, another macabre silhouette. Another follows it, then another still, shadows that crowd the dim concrete cell, an army that filters into the room, blocking out the light.

Point grins at him. “Because the only men that will hear you,” he explains, for good measure, “are my men, and they want to hear you scream. The only men that will hear you are my men, and they’re just waiting for me to be done so they can have their turn with you. I’m not usually much for sharing,” he adds, finally sliding the cloth from Wren’s mouth, “but we’ve never been allowed a plaything down here. It would be cruel not to let them have my sloppy seconds.”

Cold seeps through Wren’s skin and forms crystal in his bloodstream, a cold that aches from the inside. “Please,” he blurts, and it’s weird the way the words come, not from his brain but from the festering, infected panic in his chest. “Please, don’t, don’t —”

But Point only grins, leaning in so close Wren can feel his breath. “I knew it,” he says, sickly sweet, laying the accent on thick. “You’re prettiest when you beg, cowgirl.”

“What?” Wren breathes, and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with hitting his head. “Please, I —”

He’s interrupted by a groan so low Wren can feel the rumble of it in his bones. His mouth tastes like bile and his own heartbeat. “That’s it,” Point coos softly. “There’s a good girl.”

Wren’s breath hitches, caught somewhere high in his chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers around it and Point makes another, lower sound, so low the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stands up. He leans away, only far enough to peel off one of his gloves with his teeth. Bared, he flexes his fingers, and something serpentine beats around the inside of Wren’s stomach. “Please,” he breathes, and one of the other men audibly snorts. Wren isn’t even sure why, but it makes him sob. His hands are curled into fists so tight the bones in knuckles are grinding together. “Please,” he whispers, and Point slides a hand beneath his skirt, warm against the inside of his thigh.

Wren reacts with his entire body. He jerks away so hard he knocks his own head, still bleeding, back into the wall. Point, for such a big guy, is fast, he’s too fast, and he has his other hand curled around Wren’s thigh before Wren sees him move. He makes this embarrassing, hiccuping sort of sound, trying to shake him off, to push him away, but Point, without sweat or struggle, pulls him away from the wall by his leg, onto his back on the concrete. As he pushes Wren’s thigh up towards his chest, he coos softly. “Good girl.”

Wren doesn’t even get the chance to plead again. Point leans in close, too close, cheek to Wren’s cheek, and forces three of his fingers inside him with a groan like a man dying.

Wren doesn’t scream. Wren doesn’t do anything, actually. He freezes, so tense he can feel the ache in every one of his bones. His mind blanks, a whiteness, a sort of emptiness he’s never experienced before. It’s like everything stops, all at once, narrows to Point’s fingers and the pain he pushes inside Wren and the rumble of his approval against his chest.

“Stop,” he hears himself say, from somewhere outside himself, from somewhere really far away. “Please.”

Point coos at him again. “Oh, cowgirl,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

When he does ease out his fingers, it’s to push up his dress, the gingham and the tulle, shoving it up and around Wren’s waist. Panic surges and it tastes like bile. He doesn’t think, not really, not coherently, he only panics, and he tries to kick and Point catches him with a vice grip around his ankle. He hauls Wren closer and the concrete is so cold against his bare skin.

“No,” Wren says, and his voice isn’t his own, too breathless, too loud, too high. “No, please, please, don’t —”

Wren would dare say he’s a strong guy — he’s a lot stronger than he thinks he looks like he would be, at least. He’s no match for Point. Not at all.

And it’s strange, almost, or it would be, anyway, if Wren had the capacity to ponder the strangeness of it. He was already scared, a suffocating, delirious sort of scared, a kind of scared he didn’t think would be possible. And still, somehow, Point forces his thighs apart, and Wren can’t stop him, he can’t fight him, he can’t struggle, he can’t do anything Point doesn’t want him to do, helpless, and it’s like Wren hadn’t been scared at all. It’s like Wren, until that moment, didn’t know what it meant to be scared.

Something new rises, crests, and crushes him. He can’t breathe under its weight. He does scream, then, and he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Point grins widely. He isn’t looking at Wren’s face. He holds his thighs apart and kneels between them.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. How is this happening?

“Please,” Wren gasps, this hitching, horrible thing, “please.”

Point shifts, pinning Wren to the ground with his weight. Whatever his uniform is made out of, it feels like gravel against his skin. He moves slowly, taunting, as he pulls his belt loose, as he pulls himself free from his pants.

Wren isn’t breathing, not even hyperventilating, just making these hitching, gasping sort of sounds he can’t control. There are so many men in here with him, crowding this concrete cell, and none of them help him. There are so many men in here with him and they all just watch him beg. There are so many men in here with him and Wren has never been so alone, not once in his life.

He wants his big brother. He wants his mom. He wants to go home.

“Please,” he cries, desperate, frantic, almost a wail, most of a scream. “Please, pleasepleasepleaseple—”

Wren, in the end, screams himself hoarse.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

[painsandconfusion]

Hey there Sand. Gonna level with ya, I'm in a bad headspace right now and I probably will be for the next several days. I was hoping I could get some of your writing as a distraction. Maybe a yandere whumper that drugs and restrains their darling whumpee?? Or whatever you wanna do really, and if you'd rather not, that's okay too! Love your writing <3

I could use a little of this too. Today has been hhhhhhhh-

I wrote this in ten minutes and didn't proofread, sooooo enjoy!

.

Don't Fight It

(tw: drugging, yandere whumper, kidnapping, creepy/intimate whumper, noncon touch/kiss (nothing explicit))

[Drabble Masterpost]

“..what….did y-..” Whumpee blinked hard, staring around the room. Trying to clear..th…to clear the….ffog-? Fog.

“Shhh…” Whumper’s warm hand pulled a squeaking whine from Whumpee’s throat as they pulled them closer. “It’s just some medicine- It’s alright, love…”

Whumpee squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Whumper’s grip and off the couch. “Mmnnnoo-”

“Yes.” Their captor reeled them back in, dragging Whumpee against their chest and wrapping their arms snug around their captive. It’s just to help you sleep, love - I know you’ve been so on edge lately..” 

Whumpee whimpered as Whumper’s nose nuzzled in against the side of their neck. “Don’t fight it.” They pressed a soft kiss to Whumpee’s throat.

Whumpee squirmed, eyes burning as they squeezed shut, twisting away. “Pl-ease d-”

“SHH-” Fingers once gentle bruised in against their arm and waist.

Whumpee locked in place, breath catching and trembling in their lungs. 

Frozen.

“Mm..” Whumper nuzzled a kiss into their hair, grip softening into gentle warmth again. “Better.”

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[whumpshaped]

WHUMPEE THINKS CARETAKER IS NEW MASTER

the FEAR

THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

ESPECIALLY IF CARETAKER IS STRONG OR OTHERWISE POWERFUL?? MMM

ALSO WHEN PAIRED WITH VIOLENT CARETAKER THAT BEATS THE SHIT OUT OF WHUMPER

GOOD SHIT

~🪴~

ah yes. a classic. caretaker being violent and powerful isnt that classic within the trope so naturally im going w that bc i LOVE THAT SHIT

tw murder, captivity, caretaker new master, conditioned whumpee, knives

"What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?" Caretaker tightened their grip on Whumper's neck, threatening to snap it altogether. Whumpee watched from the corner of their cell, absolutely petrified. "Did you think no one would find out? Did you think you'd get away with it?"

"I hoped so," Whumper choked out, which only caused more anger and Caretaker slamming them against the wall a second time.

"Well, you were fucking wrong."

Whumpee was shivering violently from the cold and the fear as they watched Whumper's eyes eventually roll back. They passed out. They might bleed out as well, depending on whether Caretaker would allow them medical attention. God... they were alone with Caretaker now. The only two conscious people in the room.

"P-please don't hurt me," they squeaked. "I'll be good..." When Caretaker turned to look at them, they immediately lifted their hands to shield their face, whimpering. "Please, p-please, I've been trained, I'll do whatever you want–"

"Okay, okay, let's calm down. I'll finish the job here and then we'll talk."

Finish..? Whumpee peeked out from between their fingers and saw Caretaker pull a knife from their belt. Oh dear god. They couldn't even fully comprehend it when they saw the blade be buried deep inside Whumper's throat. They could only stare and cry.

Medical attention... as if.

"I realise how this must look to you," Caretaker said calmly as they wiped the knife off on Whumper's clothes. "I'm sorry you had to see it. But the thing is... Whumper was a vicious fucking murderer, and I'm not in the business of letting those kinda people live." They glanced at Whumpee before taking the keys to the cell from Whumper's pocket. "Are you a vicious murderer?"

"N-no, no, Master." The title came instinctually, and Caretaker didn't bat an eye. It was expected, then. Probably. They wanted to point out the apparent contradiction of being so against murderers while murdering them, but decided against it.

"Then you have absolutely nothing to fear." They unlocked the cell and walked inside, and Whumpee was beginning to realise just how much bigger and stronger Caretaker was. Bigger than them, yes, but also bigger than Whumper. Stronger too, by the looks of that corpse.

Whumpee forced themself to lower their hands and get into a proper kneeling position, no matter how much their body trembled. They had to be good. They had to be perfect. "D-do with me what you will, Ma-Master. But– but please know I'm, I'm very well-trained, I don't need to be hurt to follow orders, I– I know my place, so please–"

"Oh, quit it." The order was gentle and quiet, and Caretaker just scooped Whumpee into their arms afterwards. No questions asked. "You don't need to be 'good' anymore. You're free."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan

[whumperer-86]

Under the queen's umbrella ep05

The crown prince died after suffering from hemophelic shock

[abhainnwhump]

Whumper decides what to torture Whumpee with via a deck of cards. The number cards are more tame, like a beating or verbal abuse, while the queens and kings are hell. But the Joker is the worst. The Joker is torture in public. The humiliation.

Let's say that Whumpee can't go back to their job as a casino card dealer.