#tortured whumpee

[jordanstrophe]

Whumper was interrogated while caretaker watched from beyond the glass. Whumper gleefully spoke about everyone they tortured, recalling in great detail. Whumpee in particular was a prominent subject; they seemed to be whumpers favorite.

Each word ate at caretaker; whatever whumper spoke of, caretaker imagined a worse thing to do as revenge.

The interrogator comes back and caretaker demands "just 5 minutes alone" through fuming tears. The interrogator notes caretakers hands in fists, their body shaking with anger, their eyes pure hatred.

"No." They gently shake their head.

"Why." Caretaker spat.

"Because I know what you can do in 5 minutes and I need them alive."

[friendlesscat]

A whumpee that's so used to pain they don't realize they're hurt.

They've been so accustomed to the constant wounds and torture that they gradually grew numb to it. Or maybe to them, pain is a constant state of being, there's nothing unusual about it. And so, there's not much of a difference wether it hurts a bit more or a bit less.

Perhaps, when they've been rescued and getting accustomed to ordinary life, they might get hurt. But, since it's just a dull ache, it's fine, right? After it doesn't get better for a while, they might mention it to someone and receive the advice to visit a doctor - only to find out that the injury is major and that a person normally wouldn't be able to function at all, much less brush it off as a "minor inconvenience".

That would probably make their companions wonder about what they could have gone through to become like this. Perhaps they knew it wasn't good, but never to this extent. :D

[cuteangsty]

Whump prompt #6 - Catatonia

Caretaker just rescued whumpee. Maybe they were tied up, or locked in a basement, a cold cell, completely immobile.

"it's ok! It's ok, alright?!" Caretaker pulls them into a hug "it's ok you are safe now"

"s...safe...n-now"

"yeah, see? Everything will be okay now?" They say in shaky breaths, happy they are finally together "you are safe now!" They repeat "you are safe with me..."

"s-s-safe...wi-with..." Whumpee repeats, emotionless.

Immediately caretaker notices something is off

"whumpee...?"

"w-whumpe-e..." It's only repetition from whumpee's part.

"no- uh... You. You are whumpee." Caretaker looks deeply in their empty lost eyes. There's no response.

"wha-... what did they do to you?" Caretaker pulls them into a tight hug only now realizing how catatonic whumpee is.

[whumpanthems]

Blood - My Chemical Romance (defiant whumpee, lab vibes)

Oh Klahoma - Jack Stauber (whumpee getting tortured)

I'm so tired - Fugazi (tired/exhausted whumpee)

Dr. Sunshine is Dead - Will Wood and the Tapeworms (slightly unhinged Whumper)

[rookthebird]

every day i think about how i wrote a book where a sad monster is tortured after having to mercy-kill his only friend, and then two kind, gentle humans rescue him, but he’s super stressed about being outed as a monster the whole time

and i think “i have got to get normaler”

[whump-blog]

Prompt 44

Villain is strapped to a stretcher in the centre of the cell. His breathing and the sound of the metal instruments that Hero observes trying to decide which one to use next on Villain's abused body is all that can be heard.

Villain has been tortured for days inside the heroes' headquarters. And today was no different, or so Villain thought, until the metal door suddenly burst open to reveal the figure of Henchman.

Villain's tired eyes rested on his figure and gave him an exhausted smile.

Henchman was pointing his gun at Hero, who looked furious but no less surprised from the other side of the cell.

"What do you think you're doing rescuing this son of a bitch?" Snarled Hero as he kicked the stretcher where Villain was lying causing him to groan in pain. "Can't you see he's a villain Henchman? Drop that gun and join us, you're still young... you can still join the side of the good guys, the side of the heroes."

"When I had no one, none of you heroes came to save me. Not you, not one of your friends…" replied Henchman. "Villain was the only one who was there, he was the one who saved me… for me, he is my hero."

[when-the-feet-hurt]

cw: implied abuse + torture, mentions of death/wanting to die, non-con intimacy

“Please let me die,” Whumpee heaves as blood trickles from their forehead in thick streams and mixes with their never-ending tears.

“Why would I ever do that?”  Whumper hugs Whumpee as tightly as they can, the creaking of Whumpee’s broken ribs sounding like music to their ears as they lap at the blood on Whumpee’s face.  “I want to be together forever.  Don’t you want to be together forever?”

Whumpee looks at their mangled legs.

“I’m hurt,” Whumper pouts, leaning their head on Whumpee’s, inhaling the scent of dried blood and dandruff.  “I thought we had something.  Do you hate me?”

Whumpee tries to push themself off of the floor and move away from Whumper, but their broken wrists crack under the weight of their body.

Whumper pulls Whumpee back towards them.  A smile blooms on their face as they caress a gaping gash on Whumpee’s shoulder, digging their nails into it and clawing away at the scab, blood coating their fingers and seeping under their nails as they poke and prod at the skin.  Whumpee squirms.  The sight of their pathetic struggle makes Whumper’s heart flutter.

“I guess it doesn’t matter in the end whether or not you love me, because we’re going to be together forever, no matter what, even if I have to handcuff myself to you, even if I have to quit my job and stay in the house all day…  I’ll make sure we’ll be together forever no matter what.  Nobody’s going to get in our way.”  Whumper brushes Whumpee’s hair back and peppers their sweaty forehead with small kisses, licking the grime off of their lips and savoring the taste.  “I’ll do anything to keep us together.  I’d gladly walk on hot coals.  I’d eat trash off the ground if it meant we could stay together for another day.  I’d do horrendous things, Whumpee.  Do you understand?  I don’t mind doing them to other people, either—but don’t worry.  Nobody could replace you.  Ever.”

Whumpee’s head keeps drooping, and their eyelids keep closing, drool dribbling out of their mouth.  Whumper shakes their head and smiles.  They smack Whumpee’s head.

“It’s rude to fall asleep when somebody’s talking, especially when that somebody is your partner.  If you wanted to go to sleep, you could’ve just said so.  I can go upstairs and get you a blanket if you want.”

“I want…”

Whumper sits up straight as they finally get to hear their lovely Whumpee’s voice.  “You want what, love?”

“I want to die,” they repeat, and the smile on Whumper’s face disappears.

“I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t die just yet.”  Whumper takes Whumpee’s hand in their own, relishing in the sensation of swollen flesh and jagged bone, pressing a kiss to dry skin.  “You can’t die, not until I do—and I don’t have any plans to die anytime soon, Whumpee.”

Whumpee sobs silently, fresh tears running down their filthy cheeks, and Whumper laps them right up.

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 5, Part 1- SUSPICION

TW & CW: all hurt/no comfort; slave fic pet whump (so dehumanization, but nothing too severe); alcoholism (Whumper) & drug dependency (Whumpee); shock collar mention; explicit language (including insults); sadistic, creepy, intimate, bully Whumper; Caretaker turned Whumpee; emotional manipulation; recovering starved and beaten Whumpee (including mention of issues with being able to hold down food); post-coma & surgery recovery; mention of broken bones, stabbing, death and resuscitation; drugged Whumpee (partially voluntary, partially forced); Whumpee is an adult (mid-20s) but called “boy”; ANGST 

Author’s note: Surprise-surprise, I’m a bitch that enjoys worldbuilding, so be prepared for some AU lore! But I hope this exploration helps introduce what’s happening here, as I think some explanations are due in our sixth part! Our boy is finally awake and alert enough to talk, so we finally glimpse his and Wyatt’s dynamic 1-on-1. It’s only going to get more batshit crazy and worse from here on out, enjoy!

Look out for the special blue text! (Explanation at the bottom with the Footnotes!)

*Initial song inspo was “I’m Only Sleeping” by The Beetles (but oops I kinda derailed & went ham.)

Word Count: 3876

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A stern fist pounded on the doorframe in three successive knocks. 

An authoritative, booming voice followed, “Get up. It’s time for meds.”

The Aid let out a long yawn, then peaked his head up from his cozy blanket cocoon and pushed down the mountain of bedding he snuggled under to chest level, his warmed face kissed by the early morning chill of the crisp midwinter air. 

‘Thank fuck,’ he thought to himself. His beloved painkiller began wearing off an hour ago, and he itched for another dose.

Like most mornings, The Aid awoke groggy and lethargic and awaited the on-the-dot 8 o’clock breakfast bell that was Wyatt Sullivan’s brutish knuckles pummeling his doorframe. 

Today was no different. 

He’d been awake for some time but pretended to be asleep, hiding under the covers for as long as possible, milking as many precious moments of undisturbed rest as he could. That, and well, he hurt like hell and tried to move as little as possible because of it.

Cautiously rolling over from his side to his back, he sprawled out his unmaimed limbs, which welcomed the movement and released a euphoric surge of endorphins for his efforts—nothing like a good stretch in the morning to get the gears turning.  

He hadn’t reached the stage in his healing journey where his body ceased feeling like he got hit by a bus, but then again, it had only been three days since he awoke from his week-long coma. The annoyingly heightened sensitivity to light that nearly blinded him since the first day he regained consciousness continued to plague him- his pupils struggled to dilate, and his vision continued adding a hazy, bright whitewash over his surroundings, making him feel like he was in a perpetual dream state.

Could it be from the side effects of the new cocktail of pharmaceuticals? Body trauma? Starvation or a disturbed mental state? A combination of all? The answer was impossible to know.

What he did know was between the round-the-clock cocktail of drugs Sullivan fed him made him nauseous and heady, his inability to move half his body, and his disorientated eyesight, he half-convinced himself he really was finally dead; or at least sequestered in some poorly constructed, shabby purgatory that would hold him until he wholly phased over to the side of the dearly departed.

But death be too sweet of a release for a disparaging sad-sack such as him, and he knew better than to hope he would be allowed to go so easily. 

His snap back to reality—his reality, his sad, miserable reality, was the hard-to-ignore militaristic growl of his Master, recognizable in any mental state, clear-headed or not, no matter how dead he debated himself to be. 

The Aid fulfilled Sullivan’s read-between-the-line command out of a trained compulsory instinct rather than intentional effort—he carefully twisted his torso with his outreached, unbroken hand to the right, taking special consideration of his broken rib he hoped to not further aggravate in the process, as he fetched his glasses on the nightstand and promptly adjusted them on his nose. 

He sat up with a lackadaisical effort, matching all the bursting-at-the-seams excitability of a DMV employee, to face the day ahead of him and to face Wyatt Sullivan’s ugly mug glaring at him with a special delivery of meds and breakfast neatly put together on a serving tray held out in front of him.  

What a beautiful sight it was to see—his Master serving him for a change. 

Sullivan frowned, acting as if he were allergic to the words he spoke, chewing them with the same dissatisfaction as a toddler forced to eat broccoli, “Trouble… sleeping?” 

“No, Sir,” The Aid replied sleepily, voice laced with a twinge of early morning raspiness. 

Dr. Paul’s generously supplied Ambien made sure to keep him adequately sedated throughout the night—bonus points included keeping the pesky demons at bay.

Sullivan handed him an uncapped eight-fluid-ounce bottle of Ensure to kick off the morning regimen. He struggled the most with solid foods, but he was able to manage liquids. He sipped the drink dutifully between paced intervals as Sullivan put the tray on the dresser, then turned to witness him consume the contents. 

His appetite hadn’t fully returned; Dr. Paul said it could be quite some time before his body started feeling hungry again, some effect of long-term starvation and post-surgery recovery. And who knew what the hell this hefty dose of mixed medication was doing to him? 

Every mealtime was a battle.

He fought hard to keep down every bite he could bring to his mouth, but his efforts were not without reward as he successfully managed to hold down a couple of days’ worth of food now—which was more food than he was getting in a whole week when chained up beneath the floorboards. He forgot what it felt like to quench his thirst fully or to have a full belly—or as full of a belly as he could manage despite his ever-present teetering urge to puke his guts out. 

In the grand scheme of things, his current state was hardly an improvement, but anything—everything— felt like sunshine and rainbows compared to bleeding to death as an emaciated corpse in a dungeon.Three cheers for being adequately fed, properly hydrated, and munificently medicated—hip-hip-horay.

His satiated basic needs lent a hand for his wits and senses to begin slowly returning, and among his normal senses, he reacquainted with his sixth sense, which he had long forgotten about.

And he sensed something was off this morning.

The Aid felt Sullivan’s shift in energy…something was— looming?

The edgy ambiance alluded to more than just Sullivan’s usual restless withdrawals from alcohol (he was sure the brute hadn’t taken a sip since their little basement incident—his shakes, evened-temper, and cleaner-than-usual smell were enough of an indication of that), but any additional insight escaped him. The aura remaining in the room was unsettling at best, foreboding at worst.

***

As The Aid lay slowly dying from starvation and infection on that rotting mattress in that hell of a basement for months, the last thing on his mind was his special little bag of tricks. He was endowed with a unique set of senses separating him from the rest of the herd and earned him a hefty price tag that only those from considerable means could afford—yes, despite Sullivan’s slanderous accusations of his low worth, he did, in fact, fetch a pretty penny, many pretty pennies, a fuckloads worth. 

If Wyatt ever found out how much his mother spent on the measly servant, the man would undoubtedly pop a gasket and explode with a plume of steam jetting from his ears. 

It was more than happenstance for The Aid, a trained caregiver of Olympic-grade rank, to be a Mystic—a conduit of psychic abilities. He possessed a sought-after and rare sense-set his former CSI* facility overseer, Handler Bryce, doted on him for having and landed him the posting with Madame Sullivan in the first place—as anyone who could afford it wanted a special breed of a Domestic servant, and Elenor Sullivan spared no expense when it came to acquiring the best of the best. The Aid not only fit the bill for a high-class servant who came with all the fixings, including a level of inculcated etiquette that would make a Victorian maiden blush, but he was the damn paragon for all Mystic Grand Servants.  

The Aid’s repertoire consisted of the empathic, hyper-intuitive, psychometric*, and premonitionative* variety- that’s right, a true four-for-four value nicely wrapped up in one little shiny package available to the highest bidder. Although, according to him, these abilities merely sounded cooler than they were practical in day-to-day life, he regarded his abilities (what he thought of as “annoyances” or “curses” more than anything else) as sporadic hindrances welcomed with the same fondness as a migraine. 

The Aid’s most prominent abilities, his varying forms of empathy and hyper-intuition, morphed together (lending some to classify him with the gift of discernment- ‘yeah, ‘gift’ my ass’) to generate feelings- strong, unshakable feelings that overcame him in the form of heightened emotions, mental images, or sometimes both. 

But what all Joe Schmoes failed to realize was that Mystics were particularly vulnerable to negative energies, which his four-year-old self affectionately named “yucks.” And these yucks were everywhere: people, places, and things oozed “the yuck.” Consequently, he opted to close himself off from feeling other people; he had enough of his own shit to deal with. 

Who the fuck wanted to be burdened with the feelings of other people anyway?

A non-Mystic would assume that he at least found solace in his premonitions. 

Wrong.

Sure, his degrees of clairvoyance told him things he’d never know without supernatural intervention, and it was always right; he was always right. Yet he rarely felt satisfied with such knowledge. And sometimes, “being right” and knowing things he shouldn't landed him in a heap of trouble—and once, not so long ago, it even landed him a four-month stay shackled to a support beam, surrounded by concrete walls below ground. 

***

Sullivan sat on the edge of the bed, an awkward grimace rolled over his face, his chary eyes locked on to The Aid’s wary expression.   

‘What the hell is this about?’ 

The Aid wanted to stick out his feelers and openly prod as he would with others but knew better than to; his Master was full of nothing but a nauseating amount of malice and animosity that quickly seeped into him if he looked in for too long. If he dared plunge into Sullivan’s internal affairs, it would have to be a covert mission, a war fought with surveillance drones rather than foot soldiers.  Undoubtedly, Sullivan’s MO was off—his idle moping was unusual behavior, especially for a man as heedless and brash as he, who—more often than not— navigated the world with the cocky tactlessness of a bank robber. 

The older man broke the stare, turning his attention to his clasped hands resting on his lap.

Was he…brooding? 

After a solid minute of staring at his anxious, twiddling thumbs, Sullivan finally grumbled, “My brother is coming over today.” 

‘. . . Oh?’

Sullivan couldn’t look at The Aid as the words came from his mouth; if The Aid hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought a thorn of guilt pricked Sullivan, but psychopaths don’t feel guilt, do they? He would know.  

Perhaps Sullivan merely acted to be suffering from a pang of remorse to get sympathy points from his empathetic-to-a-fault servant; a bold and brash move considering the man just murdered and threatened to disembowel him to settle a pricey bill from the mechanic a little over a week ago. 

The Aid knew what the arrival of a guest meant, but since Sullivan didn’t ask a direct question, he kept quiet. Although he could feel Sullivan’s surface-level desire (the man projected like a lighthouse, so The Aid had to all but crack open his mentally projected empathic door just a smidge to not be overwhelmed by the influx of Sullivan’s toxic yuck) for him to just-say-something-god-damn-it to ease his internal tension, he opted to play the obedient slave role and not speak unless commanded to. He would slyly play by Sullivan’s rules when it served him best. More often than not, weaponized incompetence was the only weapon he had at hand that Sullivan was too stupid to notice since the man was an arrogant rat bastard who paraded around with the false confidence of the most intelligent person in the room. 

It was quite a sight to see the ogre of a man internally floundering like a fish out of water without his go-to conversational crutch of threatening or yelling at his sorry excuse for inheritance. The Aid found small victories where he could, and feeling the man battle himself gave him a much-needed dose of satisfaction. He fatuously likened himself to David conquering Goliath, and in true legendary fashion, the much older man at least doubled The Aid’s weight and had a full 13 inches on him, but The Aid liked to think that he had him beat when it came to native wit.

Sullivan huffed a compressed, bitter laugh, “For reasons I don’t understand, he likes you and is going to want to see you.” As he spoke, he outstretched his fingers, trying to release the tension brewing in his sweaty palms before making himself bring his gaze back up to face the physical representation of his alcohol-fueled violent outburst. 

“So-” Sullivan surveyed the broken, gaunt, sickly-looking figure before him. 

The Aid finished sipping the Ensure slowly, making sure to milk every moment of Sullivan’s sulky fidgeting, ‘Look at him posturing, actin’ all tongue-tied and flabbergasted and shit. Petulant bastard. This is gonna be a real doozy.’

The Aid kept his empathic door cracked and peaked in the sliver of space between him and a dark, dread-filled abyss, careful to keep his distance, far away enough so that no harm would befall him, but open enough to catch any emanating feeling that dared poke its tendril out from the frightening depths of Sullivan’s mind palace. The danger of meddling in his Master’s feelings did not escape him, nor would the opportunity to gently pry at the man in such an oddly vulnerable state elude him just the same. 

In an equally unpredicted but half-expected second later, a thick, clouded emotion overcame him, clear and strong as ocean winds. In the entirety of that single instant- which seemed to expand further than metaphysically possible—he felt a rare, mutual link stitch between himself and Sullivan, intertwining them in an impossible moment as they emoted in unison—

SUSPICION

Drunken Sullivan couldn’t tell his ass from elbow, but sober Sullivan was a few notches quicker (now leveling the playing field as his dried-out self was more on par with The Aid’s drugged and slightly disorientated state) and all the more eager to detect The Aid’s use of abilities, of which he banned him from using without explicit permission. Unsanctioned use resulted in a swift and proper beating for defying the Master’s orders. 

Sullivan knew of The Aid’s tricks, how he felt invading his mind, so The Aid quickly closed the mental door between them and settled back into the present moment, hoping that Sullivan didn’t catch wind of their accidental syncing.  

The Aid gulped a knot in his throat and tightened his jaw as he shifted restlessly, trying to distract Sullivan with a wince and doleful whimper to sell the look of being in physical pain over mental distress—both were true, so it didn’t demand much fabrication.

Sullivan narrowed his eyes and hacked a cavalier snicker, scrutinizing The Aid’s woebegone manner, but continued, “Ya’ve been sick, real sick. By the looks of it, for a while, I reckon. Ya’ve been struggling to eat; maybe ya got a viral infection or some bad strain of the flu or somethin’, that’s why ya’r all shriveled up an’ lookin’ like hell. An’ ‘fore that, ya hurt yourself when cleaning the windows outside on the second story…ya fell off the ladder an’ got impaled by a tree branch.” His faked insistence dwindled to an unconvincing timbre towards the end of the falsity of events, revealing his inability to buy his half-baked bullshit. 

The Aid forcibly gulped his last sip of vanilla-flavored dietary supplement, or else he would have spit it out and erupted in a fit of laughter. He bowed his head, trying to conceal a small, giggly hum that escaped him anyway, despite his effort to hold it back. 

“The fuck is so funny?” A flash of anger bolted across Sullivan’s face; his piercing eyes shot icy daggers as his hand stiffened at his side—oh, he wanted to slap the snide little fucker clean across the face.  

“Sir, respectively, we live in a desert, not many trees around. There aren’t even any trees on the sides of the house?” The Aid tried to reason, choosing his words carefully while anxious eyes surveilled Sullivan’s rigid hand, which resembled closer to a cocked gun over a human extremity. 

Sullivan forced a dramatized sigh, airing his frustrations with what he took as The Aid’s unwillingness to cooperate. A stern hand reached out; The Aid preemptively flinched—but instead of being struck, to his surprise, Sullivan snatched the empty Ensure bottle from him and replaced it with a cup of water coupled with a napkin of pills on his lap.

“Then what happened then, hm?” Sullivan asked smugly with a click of his tongue, challenging The Aid’s ability to contrive a believable story to sell.

The Aid took a moment to shift through the morning pills—all 10 of them—in search of the only three he cared about: his precious off-brand oxycodone, Klonopin, and fluoxetine. The rest he didn’t know or give a shit about, and Sullivan never bothered explaining to him. Not like it mattered; he’d have to take them all regardless—Doctor’s orders. 

The Aid considered how he could respond, wrestling with the outcome of each conjurable scenario—it could go so many ways. 

But how would he play it today? 

He singled out the two smallest pills, adding them to his holy trinity of medication, before quickly swallowing them with a couple of gulps of chilled water. 

He’d try his luck; after all, he was on the winning side, and Sullivan seemed more forgiving today.

“I think a burglar broke in and attacked me. But thankfully, my big, strong Master stepped in to save lil-ole-me since I was stuck in bed with an icky cough and too weak to defend myself.” His cadence was uncharacteristically slow, calculated, and clipped with disdain. 

He downed the remainder of the pills with a finishing chug of water and handed the empty cup to Sullivan.

‘Checkmate bitch.’

“Is that so?” The older man’s words flowed slow and sticky; suppressed anger coated every syllable; then, he slid his tongue over his teeth. Now, he really looked like he wanted to hit him, and The Aid knew it took every ounce of strength for the brute to hold back. 

Sullivan expelled a sigh before tittering at The Aid’s innuendo, seizing the cup from him and standing to set it on the dresser. Before Sullivan sat back down, he threw back the bottom covers to expose The Aid’s feet, placing a possessive hand on his sprained ankle as he settled back into his spot.

‘Oh, big man wants to play a game?’

Against his better judgment, The Aid upped his antics and turned the insinuation switch to overdrive, “You mean you don’t remember? Wow, I guess he hit you over the head harder than I thought—” 

Sullivan squeezed his lame ankle, abruptly cutting him off and forcing a surprised gasp to fill his chest. A white burn relit in his ankle, shot to his toes, and smarted up his leg, splintering off just below his kneecap; the pain plucked a yelp through his gritted teeth as he placed his hand over his broken rib, steeling himself against the sharp, pulsing agony daring to wreck him from both ends.

“Ya’ve been a real little shit ass since ya woke up from that coma, ya know that?” Sullivan snarled, rage flickered in his hollow eyes as he threw a sulky look at the insolent slave. 

The Aid knew he shouldn’t. Oh, he really shouldn’t.

Don’t say it… Don’t even think it. 

‘You’ll regret it.’

That may be true. But the opportunity was his for the taking.

Fuck it—

“I learned all my shit-assery from the very best, Sir-”

He sucked in a quick, painful breath and bolted his eyes shut from the new spark of a fiery, needling pain bursting from his ankle as Sullivan forcefully extended his wrapped foot to a point. A delayed scream ripped from somewhere deep in his belly and reverberated through his splintered rib. 

“I’m sorry!” A screech burst from the pits of his chest, trembling from a whirlpool of pain and adrenaline flooding his nerves as a few involuntary tears rolled down his cheeks. A wounded, shaky chuckle thrummed in his throat, an unconscious attempt from his body to expel pent-up distress.  

Sullivan glared at him wickedly. In any other circumstance, The Aid would’ve already been slapped around and given a black eye for being mouthy. He usually bit his tongue, or at least knew when to get off the proverbial bus before it rode off the cliff, but since awakening from the coma, since Sullivan stabbed him to death, he felt different—blasé. Devil-may-care. 

And it scared him like hell.

“Keep it up, boy, and ya’re gettin’ the fuckin’ shock collar an’ I’m frying that soft little neck of ya’rs, got it? That don’t leave marks, an’ Dr. Paul won’t know.” He jerked The Aid’s ankle again, stealing another pleading yawp pried from his vocal cords to drive the message home that he was serious—as if he ever doubted his Master’s inclination towards cruelty.

“Yes sir, please, I’m sorry!” He begged weakly between sobs. Sullivan eased his grip but didn’t remove his hand. The Aid’s ankle and side throbbed mercilessly, and he wondered how much longer they would take to heal now. 

“Look at ‘dat, an’ you fell an’ hurt ya’r already fucked up foot! The Doc is gonna tell ya that ya need to be more careful!” Sullivan taunted. 

“Yes, sir, I am very accident prone.” The Aid tried to joke, but the humor he attempted to muster didn’t rally; instead, its remnants dropped and sunk heavily in his gut. He quietly whimpered as he slowly rocked back and forth to lull himself, chastened by his foolishness, and hung his head in remorse. 

Sullivan smiled shallowly at him—it was amazing how the ogre could even ruin a smile—reveling in his slave’s misery and surrender. 

Sullivan retrieved the food tray and placed it on The Aid’s lap, monitoring him intensely as he did so. The Aid examined the contents of his breakfast—a small bowl of oatmeal, a slice of toast, and a cup of orange juice. He didn’t know how he would be able to eat it all. His barely-there appetite became further nullified by the pain throbbing throughout his body. Dr. Paul said to give it a few days for his body to get used to regular food again before he should proceed with an anti-nausea and appetite enhancer if his appetite couldn’t return on its own, but damn, did he wish for another magical little pill to fix another one of his Sullivan-made problems.  

Sullivan espied The Aid’s poorly concealed apprehension towards his food- how he looked so helplessly at the bowl of oatmeal. 

“Eat,” his Master demanded. 

Funny sentiment, all things considered, the man who starved him for months ordering him to eat. 

The Aid took the spoon and stirred the oatmeal. He was pleased to see steam coming off it—nothing worse than cold mush. He brought a small spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and chewed it slowly, trying to overcome the urge to spit it out and forcing himself to swallow.

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So, what’s with the random blue text? 

‘This is a premonition.’

THIS IS AN EMPATHIC FEELING

Footnotes: 

*CSI: (not “crime scene investigation”) stands for “Chattel Services Incorporated.” CSI is a WRU adjacent type facility that “trains” would-be enslaved people. I don’t want to give too much away right now, as more will be revealed about CSI and its facilities as time goes on! Just know that they are the big cooperation that has a monopoly on the industrialized slave trade in this alternate-reality universe. 

*Psychometric: relating to the psychic power, Psychometry, where a person receives visions through objects. We will learn more about what this means specifically for the MC down the road!

*Premonitiative: relating to the psychic ability to receive premonitions- visions of future events. The MC’s premonitions come through in a couple of different ways. Instead of visuals, he may receive internal dialogue that seems to come from nowhere. I still consider this a “premonition,” although it can also double as his hyper-intuition. 

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[abhainnwhump]

Whumper, ripping off the last page of their calendar and tossing it to Whumpee's feet: That's another year, darling. And not a single person has found you. Give up, because your friends already did.

[jordanstrophe]

Every time whumpee woke up, they were somewhere else.

Usually with a new whumper, who would torture them right back unconscious. Then they would wake up somewhere new, with someone new; who had a new tormenting strategy.

One day they awoke in a bed. The first thing they heard was music and rain tacking on the window.

-The... window?

They hadn't seen a window since they had been taken. They opened their eyes to flowers lining a table at their feet. Someone was asleep at their bedside with their face buried in whumpees side.

It was caretaker, deep in slumber while still managing a quite good grip on whumpees hand.

[friendlesscat]

I think there's some nice whump potential in gradual loss of senses. :D

For example, whumpee has been subjected to sound torture for an extended period of time. After countless hours of agony, they come to the horrifying realization that they're becoming less and less affected by it with each time. Hearing was something they had always taken for granted. But what happens when they realize they're losing it and there's nothing they can do to stop it?

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw captive whumpee, injury, betrayal, tortured for information, intimate whumper 

After hours of torture, of beatings, of sleep deprivation, Whumpee finally gives in. Coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the ground at Whumper’s feet, they beg, “S-stop, please. No more, I can’t—I'll tell you, I-I'll tell you everything.” 

“You lasted longer than I thought.” Whumper crouches down in front of them, taking Whumpee’s chin in their hand and tilting their head up. Their expression is almost sympathetic as they take in Whumpee’s teary eyes and bruised face. “But it’s okay. It’ll all be over if you give me the information I need. And then, just think how nice it will be to finally rest. You can sleep in a real bed while your injuries heal.” 

Whumpee doesn’t need any more convincing. They choke out the information through sobs, clinging to Whumper, and each heave of their chest sends pain shooting through their broken ribs. But it will be over soon—Whumpee doesn’t know why they even held out this long if they were just going to break anyway. 

Whumper strokes their hair gently as they give up the secrets they were trained to die for. Endangering their team’s entire operation and perhaps their lives. But then again, it’s not like Whumpee’s team came to rescue them—as Whumper had reminded them countless times. And they were right. 

“Good…that’s perfect, Whumpee,” Whumper praises after they’ve finished spilling every bit of information that had been requested, and then some. “Thanks to you, your team won’t stand a chance against me, now.” 

A sense of relief washes over Whumpee. It's done—the suffering is finally over with. They want to sleep until the pain no longer clings to their bones and laces every movement. However, their relief is quickly replaced by a fresh bout of fear at the realization of what they’ve just done. “They’ll know it was me,” Whumpee whispers brokenly.  

“Of course they will,” Whumper says, matter-of-fact. “And they will go looking for you. And if they find you, they will kill you.” 

Whumpee shakes their head. “Worse,” they correct. “They’ll do so much worse than just kill me.” 

A sharp pain shoots through their side and they groan, clutching at one of their wounds. Whumper gathers them into their arms before they collapse completely, and assures Whumpee, “That’s why you will be staying with me. In exchange for giving up the information I needed, you will be under my protection.” 

Whumpee can’t possibly have heard them right. They must be delirious from the pain. “W-what?” they stammer. Everything is growing fuzzy, and now that they’re being held in Whumper’s arms, they just want to let their eyes fall shut and surrender to sleep. 

The gentle fingers brushing back Whumpee’s hair lull them further into unconsciousness as Whumper murmurs, “I can’t just give you up now, sweetheart. I think you’d make a valuable addition to my team.” 

Whumpee hums in agreement, not quite sure what they’re agreeing to, but if it means an end to the pain, they’ll do just about anything. 

“You were never cut out for this line of work, were you?” Whumper says teasingly. They lift Whumpee in their arms and begin carrying them somewhere, but the gentle rocking motion of their steps eases Whumpee into sleep long before they find out where they’re being taken. 

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

whump fic where whumpee is being held captive by whumper and continually tries to escape to find where caretaker is being held so they can get out of here together, but as the story progresses it becomes more clear that whumpee is a victim of stockholm syndrome/brainwashing by "caretaker" and is actually being rehabilitated by "whumper" after being rescued, not kidnapped

[allhandsondeck1]

new whump prompt just dropped

[whumpdaydreamerx]

Whumper forcing Whumpee to swallow something, whether it be a sedative, poison, maybe even the key to their own chains.

Whumper’s hand covering their mouth so they can’t spit it back out. Whumpee’s half lidded eyes pleading with Whumper as they maintain eye contact. Throat taut and Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as they struggle.

Clamping their eyes shut as they finally give in and whatever it is makes its way down to their stomach.

[whump-allthe-way]

caretaker wasn’t supposed to be doing this, they weren’t a caretaker, and surely whumpee is capable of taking care of themselves, right? surely they’re old enough, so why does caretaker need to be there? they hate it, waking up every morning to an overly excited whumpee rambling about their dreams, they make breakfast and attempt to tune out of the annoying endless chatter, and they spend their evenings praying to everything above that whumpee would just go to bed-

until one day whumpee’s gone. they dropped them off at school without a word, watched them as they happily waved them off before turning to their friends. but now they’re gone, they’re not waiting in that same spot out of the school, there’s no sight of them or their backpack riddled with dozens of cute keychains and pins. caretaker jumps out of their car, heads towards the friends they pretended not to notice, demanding to know where their charge is. the shrugs tell them nothing, so they go home.

maybe whumpee will show up later, the peace and quiet will be nice after all.

a few hours pass, and caretaker cooks them a meal for when they’re home.

they watch the clock tick by and pass their favourite channel as they scroll through the tv, their show is on.

whumpee never comes home, and soon they’re at the police station. the police call them a few days later, and all caretaker hears is “i’m sorry- kidnapped-“

caretaker waits in the silence, they cook two meals every night in case whumpee comes strolling through that door with their giddy smile and endless stories, they save their show so they can catch up, and they practice their “i don’t care about you, but don’t do that again” lecture.

it’s months before caretaker gets the call, and this time the only word they hear is “hospital”

caretaker isn’t worried, or angry or scared, not by whumpee’s pale, bruised face, the frail form or the scars that peak out from the covers. caretaker doesn’t care- and they’re not crying from relief, they’re not gripping their hand tightly as they thank every god above, because whumpee is nothing more than an inconvenience-

whumpee is so small now, they shake and stutter, and the small smiles they manage don’t reach their eyes. when they’re home, whumpee doesn’t talk, not really, they answer caretakers questions and they mumble a shaky thank you when they’re given food, but they don’t ramble. not like they used to.

and caretaker finds themselves filling in the silence, sat on the couch talking and talking, about what whumpee’s missed, their friends and hell- even caretaker’s friends. they hand them the remote to watch their show and they tuck them in at night, and they pray that one day whumpee will smile again, perhaps wake them with that annoyingly cheerful “morning caretaker!” once more, or even just talk about the meaningless things in their life.

the whumpee they let crawl into their bed after they wake up screaming, the whumpee that hides behind them in front of strangers, the whumpee that quietly asks them questions isn’t their whumpee. and all caretaker can think is that if they’d just listened; payed a little more attention to their endless stream of words, their whumpee would be here.