#whump: isolation

[lumpywhump]

A locked door

Tw: sensory deprivation, slightly mentioned starvation

the door slammed shut.

"No! Please don't leave me here!" Whumpee cried as whumper locked the door.

"I'll let you out when I feel you have learned your lesson,"

"No! Please! I'm sorry!" Whumpee screamed and pounded on the door, leaving bloodied handprints all over it. "I'm sorry! I'll be good! I won't do it again! please!"

---

It's been... days? They didn't know. Whumpee was curled up in the corner, praying whumper would come back. The only light in the room came from under the door. Their heart jumped every time someone walked past, thinking it could be whumper. They couldn't do anything. There was nothing in their room that could help them. Whumpee swore they could see things creeping in the shadows. They lay, curled up in a ball, flat on the ground. The only movement was from shivering. The drape they usually used as a blanket was missing.

Whumpee was sorry. They were truly sorry. They wouldn't fight back again, they wouldn't run away again, they would be good for whumper when they came back. If they came back. God they were stupid. Why did they even run? There was no point... whumper will always find them.

The door creaked and whumpee didn't have the energy to pick their head up. A hand pulled their hair, forcing them to turn their head to face whumper. Pure exhaustion filed their face as whumper stared at them. Whumpee kept their eyes down, they couldn't bear to look whumper in the eyes.

"Why should I let you out? You get one chance,"

One chance

It echoed in their head.

"I'm sorry," they whimpered oh so pitifully. A warm tear fell.

Whumper smirked. "I do love it when you cry," a pause. "Are you going to try to run again?"

whumpee perked up a little. "No! No I won't I promise!" They were desperate to be believed.

They froze under whumper's gaze. Whumper was so fickle, whumpee couldn't tell if they were going to be let out.

"You understand if you run again, the consequences will be a lot worse than this." A statement, not a question. "I will be lenient this time. Don't make me retreat it." Whumper stood up. "Go shower and meet me in the courtyard. Don't eat anything yet." Whumper walked away with the door open.

Whumpee pulled themself up onto their forearms and smiled a little. They were so thankful to be allowed to leave, and they had little hesitation walking out the door.

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: isolation, dehumanization, captivity, panic attack mention, self harm (not in vivid detail)

isolation punishment in whump.

say whumpee tried to escape, and almost succeeded. Or hurt whumper, or killed someone working for whumper. something whumper would consider serious.

whumpee who gets trapped in basically a functional apartment- self restocking food and a working bathroom but no tv, or books, or board games, or anything made to entertain or keep them busy. there are no windows, and the lights turn on and off by themselves, and the door is heavy, dark, and grey- not to mention, locked. the only reason why their prison resembles a home is so that they would take care of themselves and wouldn’t be allowed to see the people who are giving them food or taking their dishes.

whumpee who starts hurting themselves just for something to do.

they get kept in there for sometime above a month, and when whumper finally comes in to check on them, they are so, so desperate for any kind of human touch.

whumpee who gets down on their knees in front of whumper, begging and pleading for forgiveness while sobbing violently. whumpee who’s just begging for whumper to not leave them alone. they’ll be good, they’ll be exactly whatever whumper wants them to be, just please don’t leave them. maybe whumper sees how desperate whumpee is to not be left alone, and decides based on that to leave them in there for a little while longer.

Or a whumper who likes to portray themselves as kind, holding whumpee in their lap while they cry and talking about how much they missed whumpee and how they hate doing things like this, but if whumpee would just be good, they wouldn’t have to.

whumper who found their breaking point, and every time they’re disobeying from then on, whumper just asks them if they want to go go back in their room, and whumper is instantly going completely silent. whumper smiles and ruffles their hair, saying something demeaning like ‘good pet’.

whumpee who never really gets over it. after recovery, they can’t be left alone at all so that they don’t have debilitating panic attacks. caretaker at a loss, because they love whumpee, but they have other obligations in their life and whumpee can’t come with them to all of them.

maybe caretaker doesn’t notice at first and whumpee doesn’t say anything, so whumpee stays home for a couple days just pulling at their hair or scratching at their skin to stay calm. whumpee who’s confused and so lost, because they don’t know why they’re being punished.

[smthnsmthn-whumpblog]

as much as i like it when whumpee has been burned one too many times and resolves to never get close to anyone ever again, i think i prefer when the opposite happens. when despite all the betrayals, all the abuse, all the neglect, whumpee is jumping headfirst into every relationship, platonic or romantic, with a big stupid grin - or rather, because of all the betrayals abuse and neglect. pretty much all of the important people in whumpees life so far have treated them like less than shit, so whenever someone comes along and treats whumpee like a human being with feelings, whenever someone is actually nice to them, they’re immediately attached for life. no matter if they turn out to be horrible people who preyed on whumpees vulnerability and desperate desire for love and affection only to demean and ridicule and hurt them

[whumpitisthen]

Imagine keeping Whumpee in a cursed/magic display case 24/7. They're fed, they don't need to use the restroom, but there's not enough room to lay down, and they're completely deprived of human contact, and even if Whumper completely abandoned them, they can't die while they're in there, but is it really living, when they're trapped behind glass?

I thought about this a lot and I've come to the conclusion that this would be like being bound to an object entirely. Like living in a mirror, or being inside an amulet kept close around someone's neck. Caged, only ever being able to watch, but never even being allowed not to, never being able to sleep, or experience anything themself. All they have is what they see.

It would be indescribable torture to exist like that no matter what. If they are somewhere busy, watching over a street or something, all they can think about is how badly they want to be one of those people, free and happy. Meet with family, have dreams, goals, things to do, food to eat, hobbies to try.

But if they are abandoned, forever locked away somewhere where nobody goes, nothing happens, for years... Imagine setting free a whumpee like that. One that not only hasn't had an ounce of control over their life, but also not even a body to really speak of. How could a whumpee like that live? How would they act around others? How would they know that they need to eat and sleep eventually?

And what if its the worst of both worlds. What if they are fortunate enough to be stuck in a busy space — it's just unlucky that that place is a front row seat to the most demented torture of others, perhaps even people they personally know. They have something to watch, but they wish they didn't, they wish they didn't have to see all the suffering, they wish they could just close their eyes or stop existing altogether.

But also, being put on display is just a whole other flavour of awful. Imagine a fallen king... The kin of a rare species... The snitch... An example... So many reasons they could put somebody on display for, and have others stare at them all day.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had been kept in isolation for all of their stay with the whumper, only seeing the whumper deliver them food and water without saying a word. The whumpee knew that they were desperate for someone to talk to them, desperate to see another face- yet as soon as they were free, they isolated themselves. The whumpee would stay in their room, ignoring anyone that tried to talk to them, and barely even paced around the little room they had.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Thinking about magic or mind/emotional control that brings out all the whumpee's worst qualities, leading them to drive away all their loved ones so they won't have anyone there for them in the vulnerable aftermath when they snap out of it and need them most 😊

[castillon02]

“Make them clean their own guns,” Nguyen said, leaning her considerable bulk over Q’s desk. She was just starting her shift. “Or at least wear gloves.” 

Q kept plunging a bore brush soaked with cleaning fluid into the barrel of 007��s Walther PPK. His eyes burned with fatigue. “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

When he finished, he left with gun oil on his fingers, fingers that had traced over the gun’s every crevice, every curve and angle, every metal and electric anatomical fold. 

—

“Why not tell us to clean our own guns?” 006 asked. 

“I'm a control freak,” Q said. “Which is also why I know that yours is in the middle of the Atlantic and not in need of cleaning at all.” 

This was a lie. 006 had reported the gun lost at sea but had actually smuggled it back into his own flat, where it was currently residing in what Q suspected was his bedroom and knew for certain was the room that also had a backup earwig that Q had personally assembled, a Ka-Bar that Q had archaically sharpened on a whetstone, and one of the decoy keychains and keys (Alaska) that Q kept on his desk so that agents had something harmless to swipe. Probably there were other things that 006 also had in his nest, but they would be things that Q hadn’t touched and could only theorize about. 

Q was bad at lying. 

006 visibly recognized this, realized that Q was lying in his favor, and couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “Right,” he said. 

Q smiled. Fixed him with a specific knowing look. You don’t ask, I don’t ask. “If it hadn’t sunk into the fathoms below, I would recommend a new hammer spring. Sometimes these things get a bit fussy when you use a gun as a bludgeon. That’s part of why I do in-person maintenance.” 

Part of the reason; not the whole reason. 

006 muttered a Russian curse. “Thank you, Q.” 

“Happy to help.” 

---

001 brought his guns back clean, but with a new part in them each time; a replacement firing pin, hammer, ejector rod, bullets. 

Q always asked about the replacement. He did it before disassembling the gun, like a magic trick.

001 always grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I’ll get you next time,” he would say, wagging a finger at him. Perhaps you’re more fallible than you believe. 

“It’s good that you’re optimistic,” Q would reply loftily. No mistakes. I see your gun. I see your tricks. I see you. 

—

004 never cleaned her gun and always brought it back. Hers was a semi-automatic of Theseus, parts replaced naturally when there was wear and tear. 

“Same as always?” she asked when she picked up her kit. 

“Same as always,” Q confirmed. 

—

When Q was a child, he asked, “Mum, why do you always shout about your car keys in the morning? And why does Peter never know where his pencils are?” 

She frowned into the mirror and finished applying her lipstick. “Sometimes people lose things, dear.” 

“How?” Q asked, boggled. 

She looked at him with squinched eyes; that meant she was thinking hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “we forget where we put them, or someone puts them somewhere we don’t expect.” 

Q squinched his own eyes too. What could she be thinking so hard about?  

Mum smiled. “Tell you what, we’ll see if I can give you a demonstration after school, all right?”  

Mum didn’t turn on the telly right away after dinner like she usually did. Instead, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, you know how you asked about when I lose my keys? Does that ever happen to you?” She was trying to be casual about it, but if it were really unimportant then she would have asked during a commercial. 

“One time I pretended it did,” he told her, “because I was curious to see what it was like. So one day while you were doing the shopping I put one of my books on top of the telly and stomped around in the other room going ‘Where the hell is my story book?’ in a loud voice like you do with your keys. It was a little fun, but not much.” 

“It’s not fun to lose things. Do you know,” she asked, “where your story book is now?” 

“Yes, of course,” he said. His story book was immense and well-thumbed, so heavy that it made him grunt whenever he had to lift it, but he had already read through all of it at least four times. It had hard edges and corners that were beginning to bend; chocolate fingerprints littered the pages at the beginning because his hands had still been sticky from birthday cake when he first opened it—he can put his fingers on them now and see how much he’s grown. There’s a stain of pomegranate juice at the beginning of the Persephone story from the pomegranate that his mother had bought before they read it together; a special treat, expensive, but “you have to know what a pomegranate is before you read it,” she’d said, “otherwise you’ll wonder why they’re eating the seeds.”    

“And where is it?” his mum asked. She had to know that Q knew, because why wouldn’t he know? 

He answered anyway. She ‘humored’ Q a lot, she sometimes told him, so he could humor her this time. “In the vegetable drawer,” he said. “You came home for lunch and moved it there. But that’s a silly place for things that aren’t vegetables, isn’t it?” 

His mum closed her eyes and sighed, long and deep the way she did every so often when Q asked too many questions that she couldn’t answer. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “I’m lucky to have a son who knows that. But most people can’t keep track of their things as well as you can, so let’s not talk about it too much and make them envious, all right?” 

That was something he knew how to do. He had already had a few talks about not stirring the other kids up with how smart he was. Plus he could tell from the tightness in her voice, like when she talked to her boss’s boss or Q’s headmaster, that she was nervous. “Sure, Mum,” he said. “I won’t.”   

So he never mentioned it again. 

He also never lost his keys, or his rucksack, or his socks, or anything else he touched and touched often. He might as well try to lose his own foot.     

—

“You know, we can clean our own guns,” 002 said, dropping her pistol onto Q’s desk. “In fact, you’ll find I did.” 

Q smiled. “That will make it much quicker when I do it, then.” 

002 pursed her lips and blew a pink bubble with her gum, which Q Branch had also issued her. “And where do you want this?” She took the sticky wad out of her mouth and held it out to him. “Gonna chew it for me?” 

Q held out a petri dish. “We have better chemical analyzers than my tongue, I’m happy to say. We do want to see about the wear and tear on the product.” He met her eyes. “Reliability is important in our field.”  

002’s performatively petulant glare softened. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and next time you’ll make it into plastique instead of a tracker.” One corner of her mouth quirked up.

The sticks of gum were actually one of Q’s least favorite gadgets; like most gum, it was sensitive to heat, so he couldn’t hold it for long without destroying its structural integrity. Couldn’t sense what he usually sensed. But if it put a smile on 002’s face as well as being useful to her, he’d keep issuing it.   

—

“A gun and a radio,” Q said. He waved his hand at the corner of his desk where he’d perched the usual equipment case. “Earwig will be distributed at your landing site. Unless things go terribly wrong, the local team should be able to support you for this one.” 

Bond took the case. “Anything else?”     

Q looked up; he’d been double-checking Bond’s mission brief and wondering how much structural damage the Managua team could make excuses for. “Cufflinks.” He pulled a small box out of his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks, copies of ones that Bond already owned and wore frequently. “They have little folding knives in them.” He demonstrated how the outside half could be pulled apart to reach the blade in the middle. 

The corners of Bond’s eyes were all happy wrinkles. “Am I expected to need tiny knives?” 

“No,” Q admitted. “But you brought the Walther back last time and I thought you could use some positive reinforcement. May I?” He removed the old cufflinks and put the new ones on, his fingertips brushing against the warm skin of 007’s wrists as he did. “Good luck in the field, 007,” he said after he closed the last French cuff. “As always, try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”   

“As always,” Bond echoed, his eyes meeting Q’s before he left. 

The cufflinks weren’t just positive reinforcement, of course. They were a connection; this meant that it was even odds that Bond would destroy them. (Paradoxically, Bond had the best equipment survival rate when that equipment self-destructed; he wore the latest exploding watch for three months and four missions before he had to use it.) 

Q didn’t touch the other 00s, who stayed near their equipment, more or less, and who deserved their privacy, deserved not to have their footsteps tracked through the crevices of Q’s brain. In fact, he didn't touch anyone. Not if he could help it.

With Bond, Q made excuses for the tiniest bit of extra assurance, the mental tip-toe of 00 feet sneaking across the globe. 

—

“Make Hutchinson do it,” Nguyen said, back again. “He loves guns; he’d be thrilled to do maintenance on company time.” 

Q met her eyes. “I take personal responsibility for the equipment of our most senior agents. They deserve that level of consistency.” He changed out the cleaning swatch he was using. 

“How consistent will you be if you burn out because you never leave this place? Guns, radios, earpieces--you can delegate. Our work is important, but...” 

“I’m almost done,” Q said, implacable. 

Nguyen sighed. “Sleep well, Quartermaster.” She showed herself out.             

Q dried, oiled, and reassembled the gun. He would make sure to catch up with Doctor Who and a few blockbusters so he could convince Nguyen that he sometimes made an effort to think about things that weren’t work or work-related. They could collaborate on blueprints for a sonic screwdriver. It would be fine. 

He would even give the same advice if he were in her position. She couldn’t know that Hutchinson doing as simple a thing as cleaning a Double-Oh’s gun until it shone would be detrimental to the delicate safety net that Q had been building since he had arrived at Six.  

Q touched everything his agents went out with, enough that he could still sense 007's old Walther in Macau, 001's discarded ejector rod in Tunis, 004's stack of worn-out gun parts secreted in a tea tin hidden behind a book on his shelf because he liked the thrum of them all together like that, and there was always the risk, at work, that they'd be disposed of.

He never lost things that were truly his. Guns, radios, earwigs, cufflinks.

He hadn’t lost an agent yet either.

[how-much-for-a-whump]

WHUMPCEMBER day 8:

Prompt: "Isolation"

Arka Sokaklar 557. - 558. Bölüm

@whumpcember

[jordanstrophe]

Whumper cracked open the cell as the light revealed their captive on their knees. Their hands were bound behind their back and a chain bolted to the wall wrapped around their arms and chest.

The chain was nearly off, not enough they could get free but enough they clearly struggled for a long time. 

"Almost got it off, huh?" Whumper smirked, standing over them as whumpee looked up with an exhausted expression.

"No worries. I'll tighten it for next time..."

[martyr-inthedark]

Their friends were gone. At least, that's how Whumpee felt after being rescued, hospitalized, and receiving ongoing treatment. They had spent who-knows-how-long away from home, being used and abused, and now they can barely recognize the people they had clung to in their darkest moments.

The team all had the same features as before, if not a bit aged. That wasn't the problem. Whumpee slowly realized with a sour feeling in their stomach that the problem was that their friends now had a history that did not include Whumpee. The problem was that there were seemingly an unending number of new inside jokes. New music was played on the sound systems. New politics, new clothes. Whumpee was only invited out as an afterthought, often with a caveat that, "they didn't have to if they didn't want to!"

The base was remodeled. The previous Leader had a kid and stepped down. Someone was hired to fulfil Whumpee's job. Caretaker had gotten married. Whumpee hadn't been there to experience their friends' joys and sorrows. Instead, Whumpee got to watch from the outside as people tiptoed around their trauma, sharing pitiful smiles, and giving them photo albums to look through to catch up or menial tasks to do.

Whumpee's friends were gone because they had moved on with their lives. None of them were any where close to needing Whumpee as much as Whumpee needed them.

[whumpacabra]

Stranded

On a deserted island; there’s no fresh water, no animals, and very little shade. How long will they last?

In space; there’s only so much oxygen left in her life pod. Does she risk waiting for rescue or activate an unreliable cryostaisis?

By a snowstorm; cut off from the roads and electricity, he’s trapped. Will he survive the frigid temperatures at night?

On the roadside; ze are left for dead, lost and disoriented. Can ze trust the stranger who’s offering zem a ride to town?

At sea; people trapped on a small life raft with other survivors. It’s only a matter of time until someone dies of dehydration and exposure - what will they do with the corpse?

[whumpster-dumpster]

"Stop trying so hard to help, just stop caring about me."

"Why?"

"...It'll be easier to move on if you don't miss me."

[crimsonwolfheadcanonsandsnippets]

Leon Angst Headcanons

1: Leon’s alcohol induced dreams are of what life would be like if BOWs were completely taken care of and he was able to live a normal life. Life where he was able to take care of Sherry with Claire and spend time with Chris and Jill. They’re so realistic that when he wakes up, he questions where he is. Usually it ends in bouts of anger or tears and more alcohol. 

2: Due to his busy schedule and everybody else having a life, he doesn’t get to spend time with his friends unless it’s the end of the world as they know it. Never a fun time, and he won't get close to Hunnigan for fear of losing her.

3: He filmed videos for each of Sherry’s birthdays and Christmas and sent them to her, but they were intercepted so she never saw them. He never got anything back, so he spent a long time questioning if she cared. 

4: Leon still has nightmares about Raccoon City, even though he’s been through a lot worse things. The initial horror that he felt in Raccoon City never fades from his nightmares, leaving him a mess when he wakes up. 

5: Even though he wants to call Claire, Chris, or Jill to vent about his problems, he worries that they won’t want to listen to him so he doesn’t ever try. 

6: Leon has an extreme fear of rejection, so he doesn’t do anything that could lead his friends to reject him unless he absolutely has to. He gets incredibly anxious any time he has to risk rejection (he looks cool and composed because of masking, but he's definitely having a bad reaction once he's alone). (Kinda ties into 5 now that I think about it.)

Sorry, I was just feeling the angst, so I had to write these out. Currently writing a fic with number 3, which is what made me think of this in the first place. Feel free to share your Leon angst in the comments!

[whumpsday]

Ancient Evils

Whump Oneshot - Writing masterlist

find my G/t blog here: @smallsday

content: g/t whump, giant whumpee, demon whumpee, magical whump, isolation, claustrophobia, burns, forced to obey, rescue, hurt/comfort, caretaking

Whumpmas in July Day 21: Abandoned GT July Day 21: Coveted Hug a Giant Day

dammit i did that thing again where i write a oneshot and it turns into the setup for a miniseries. will write a followup to this eventually lol but it also works as a standalone <3 (edit: might just leave this as a standalone, who knows)

-

The tomb was covered in glowing runes Berian knew from his studies, but had never encountered in use until today. Symbols carved painstakingly into stone by ancients, covering every inch of the thirteen-foot stone box, all screaming a single purpose: keep whatever lies inside sealed within.

The magic used to activate them was powerful, powerful enough to seal the tomb for two thousand years, powerful enough that the caster had surely died, given what they had to work with back then. It was likely all they could think to do in their desperation, back then. Berian uttered a quick prayer for the caster who came before him, who had sacrificed themself to save countless: long-dead, but not forgotten.

At least he wouldn’t have to follow in their footsteps. Two thousand years was, thankfully, enough time to develop a better solution. A way of utilizing the demon’s own magic against itself.

Though it was always in the back of his mind as a backup, in case something went wrong. Hopefully, the knot of anxiety in his stomach would dissipate after it was done.

Berian looked to his watches, lined up one after the other on his wrist, all still in sync, and waited.

As soon as it hit twenty seconds until release, he began chanting as practiced, his staff pointed directly at the tomb. He had to time it just right, or his colleagues out at the entrance probably wouldn’t even be able to come retrieve his corpse.

“Finis.”

Precisely at the same moment Berian bound the spell, the runes ceased to glow, a forceful BANG sounding from within the tomb.

He exhaled slow. The lid stayed shut. After only a few seconds, the runes resumed glowing once more. He’d done it.

The entity inside screamed.

Berian jumped back. The screaming did not stop, a wail of agony and despair. Barely audible under it all, his phone beeped, the least of his worries.

“Hello?” he called out, hesitant.

A voice roared from inside. “LET ME OUT.”

In all his wildest imaginings, Berian had never imagined the demon would speak to him.

He could, he realized. The spell had bound the demon to his will: it would have to obey him even outside the tomb.

And it was the only chance he would ever get. And they had backup plan after backup plan in place in case things went horribly wrong.

“...Okay. Don’t move.”  This would at least be a good test of whether the spell would hold, he told himself. It was safer this way, really.

Berian tried to lift the lid, but it was simply too heavy, a gigantic slab of solid stone. He pointed his staff to it, muttering just the right words to let it slide off to the side.

The demon looked like a man. He hadn’t expected that. He was as tall as the tomb was long, easily more than twice Berian’s height, with large, curled horns protruding from his head, but other than that, he looked human.

True to Berian’s order, he did not move a single muscle. His body lay stock-still within, his arms raised and palms up–he’d been attempting to push the lid off himself. Overlapping scars streaked down his skin wherever it touched the stone in the pattern of the runes, burned in as though with a branding iron. Massive shackles cinched tight around his wrists, ankles, and neck, chains binding him to the inside of the tomb.

The demon did not speak again, his eyes wide with overwhelming alarm.

It was only after a moment of taking him all in with awe that Berian realized it was him preventing the demon from doing so.

“You can move,” he amended. In addition to forcing the demon to use his own magic to re-activate the runes, the initial spell had contained a command preventing him from leaving the tomb. This would just be going overkill.

The demon gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “OUT. OUT. YOU WILL RELEASE ME.”

Berian winced. “I can’t do that. You’ll hurt people, like last time, right?”

To Berian’s continued amazement, the demon began to cry.

“ONLY YOUR ENEMIES. OR NO ONE AT ALL. WHATEVER ARE THE TERMS. WHAT MUST I DO TO BE RELEASED?”

Berian could have sworn he heard that powerful voice break, just a little.

“NAME YOUR TERMS,” the demon insisted. Berian was sure now, the desperation palpable.

The demon shifted slightly, and everywhere the stone touched new skin, it burned.

“You–you will harm no one,” Berian started, before he’d even thought how this was going to work. “You will stay in this section of the cave. You will not touch my staff or any other conduit of magic. You may exit the tomb.”

Berian had never seen something so huge move so quick. The demon burst from the stone box like a firework, chains snapping like rubber bands under his freed might, the ends hanging limply from his shackles. The cave ceiling was not tall enough for him to stand and he did not try, scrambling as far away as he could get and huddling against the wall there.

His phone beeped again.

The demon glared at him, his chin tucked into the metal wrapped around his neck, breathing heavily.

This wasn’t right. This was a demon that had wrought terror across lands, responsible for thousands of deaths, a giant among men. He wasn’t supposed to be… pitiful.

“Hey–”

“I WILL NOT GO BACK IN.” Now that he was out of the tomb, Berian could see the true extent of the damage, the burns even more intense on skin that had been pressed against the bottom. As huge as the box was, it had been built scarcely larger than the man before him, big enough to fit him and no more. Skin that had been pressed against the bottom was particularly scarred, so much so that it was essentially a giant burn, the symbols impossible to make out.

“I’m not going to make you go back in there,” Berian promised. Maybe a stupid promise. What the fuck was he going to do? “So just… it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting that. The demon’s glare gave way to surprise. “GOOD.”

Berian took an experimental step forward, like he was coaxing out a feral cat. “Do you have a name? Mine’s Berian. I’m–” Don’t say caster. “...A researcher.” It wasn’t a lie, after all.

The demon picked his head up. “THEY CALLED ME ALARIC. ALL-POWERFUL.” The words rang bitter.

“Were you… awake in there, all this time?” Berian asked, dreading the answer.

The glare returned. “I DO NOT SLEEP.”

“We didn’t know you were awake. You weren’t supposed to be awake.” Berian took a couple more steps forward.

Alaric put his hand up, huge, sharp claws protruding from every finger. Berian flinched, squeezing his eyes shut with a small yelp, but there was no attack: his commands prevented it. When he opened his eyes, he found Alaric merely motioning for him to stop.

“DO NOT BRING THAT NEAR ME.” He pointed to Berian’s staff.

“Okay! Okay.” He set the staff down on the ground, bringing his hands up in a placating motion. “See? You follow my commands, I follow yours, it goes both ways. I don’t have it.”

Alaric lowered his hand. “YOU MAY PROCEED, MAGE.”

Heart fluttering and permission granted, Berian did. He walked right up to him: even huddled on the floor, Alaric was taller than Berian was standing.

“STATE YOUR PURPOSE HERE.”

“Right! I, ah, I was sent to… re-seal you. But I won’t!” Berian clarified hurriedly. “Really, I was just sent to make sure nobody gets hurt. Like–like the last time you were out. That’s fine, right?”

Alaric narrowed his eyes. “IT IS DONE.”

“Good! Good.” Berian hovered a hand inches from his skin. “You’re hurt.”

“YES. THAT.” Alaric nodded toward the tomb and shuddered.

In order to create something that could contain a demon, they’d had to make something so totally opposed that it had harmed him. Berian didn’t blame the ancients: they had to stop the massacres one way or another, and they worked with what they had. They were desperate.

But there was no massacre now.

Without his staff, the kinds of spells he could perform were limited, but not nothing. While he couldn’t cast outright healing spells–would they even work on a demon?--he could at least cast something soothing. “I could… help. If you want.”

Alaric eyed him silently for a few moments before responding. “DO AS YOU WISH.”

“I can touch you?” Berian asked.

The demon nodded. Berian laid his hand lightly against Alaric’s back, red with harsh welts. He could feel Alaric’s muscle underneath, tensed, twitching slightly at his touch.

His whispered incantation didn’t do much. It was the magical equivalent of putting aloe on third-degree burns. But it was something, and Berian felt Alaric relax just slightly under his hand.

Berian performed the spell again and again, touching wherever it looked the worst. Between this and the earlier binding, he quickly exhausted himself, but that was fine.

“Better?” he asked.

“...YES.” Alaric looked down at him with a little less apprehension now. “YOU WILL BE SPARED, MAGE.”

“Haha, great!” Berian squeaked. “Just–just like everyone, right?”

“THOSE WERE THE TERMS,” Alaric agreed.

Berian wanted to get those shackles off. He wanted to take Alaric out of here, bring him to the lab. No, the lab wouldn’t be big enough to house him comfortably. Nowhere would. They’d have to build a custom facility, and there was no way he’d get permission for that, much less the funding. He couldn’t so much as let anyone know the state in which he’d left Alaric, or they’d find another caster and find a way to finish the job.

His phone beeped twice.

“I have to go, okay? You just… stay down here for now. I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “I’ll bring you things.”

“BRING ME A SHEEP,” Alaric demanded.

“I’ll bring you a sheep! Sure! And–I’m sorry about this, but if someone finds you, it’s going to be really bad, especially for you. So… be quiet,” Berian ordered.

Alaric did not respond. He couldn’t. His features set back into a glare, but he nodded: he was the one who stood to lose, after all. At least he understood.

Before Berian could think better of it, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the demon as much as he could manage to. Alaric did not push him away, even though he could have. If anything. Alaric leaned into it slightly.

He stayed like that for a good minute before stepping away. “I’ll protect you. That’s my job.”

Berian raced out toward the entrance, already planning his next visit.

Oneshots taglist

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

-

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps​

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@sowhumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

-

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@alextries

-

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

G/t taglist

@whumpinthepot

@cupcakes-and-pain

@reborrowing

Events

@whumpmasinjuly

@gianttol

@friendlyfoxpal

[screams-n-shackles]

"Next time you pick and choose... between us.. promise that you will stay with me. I cannot bear to rot alone."

Snippet from a whumpy fic I am currently writing

[save-the-spiral]

Revenant

(Part Two) (Part Three)

Content warning for: Major Character Death, Gore, Violence, Blood, Torture, Human Trafficking (mentioned), alcohol (no described drinking/drunk characters), dehumanization (it/its pronouns & animal comparisons)

(Ao3 Link)

2.5K words. Vampire Whumpee(s), Human Whumper

Beau had always been a good servant. Silent, obedient, efficient. Able to work ahead, as if he knew his master's wishes before they were spoken, but was in fact reading behaviors and routines that even his master did not know he was exhibiting.

He had always known his master was an angry man. One with much responsibility and authority, and no outlet besides violence.

The anger only came out at home, where it was private. No good servant betrayed their master's secrets, after all.

Beau had been trained by his mother in the kitchens of the large estate. The rest of the staff was his family, as he had no other parent or siblings. All throughout his youth, it was impressed upon him the importance of silence, of obedience. Able to act as if one isn't there, to be as unnoticed and inconsequential as a piece of furniture.

He had attended school, but had little in the way of friends. Graduating high school was where he ended his academic career anyway, as his job in the estate's kitchens was more sure than any attempt at getting into a college or university. He wasn't smart enough to get a scholarship anyway.

Beau was good at his work. A natural, the chef would say as she ruffled his hair. Quiet as a church mouse, his mom would praise.

He had once attributed it all to his looks. Black hair and brown eyes, average in every way. On his mother, those features looked pretty, at least to him. On Beau, it was plain to the point of invisibility.

One of the maids he had grown up alongside, Eun-Yeong, insisted it was all skill, though Beau took that with a grain of salt considering her clumsiness.

Whenever Beau denied it, she tried to whack him with whatever rag or feather duster she had on hand and declared that she wished he could be as invisible to her as he was to the master and his guests. Supposedly being humble didn't suit him.

Whatever the case, it was because of Beau's skills as a servant that he had been enlisted as one of the servants that took care of the thing his master kept in the basement.

Ever since he was a child, Beau's mother told him to never pay any heed to the screaming that came from the basement of the estate. To never ask about it, to never peek down there, and to never, ever venture down those stairs without permission.

A good servant did not pry into their master's affairs, after all. It was no business of theirs what happened down there, only to clean up the aftermath and do what they were told.

It hadn't been until the most recent of his master's victims had arrived that Beau was assigned down there. It was only to bring meals to the master- the thing his master vented his anger onto had no need to eat.

There was an air of hope regarding the thing in the basement. Rumors among servants said that it had no need to eat, to sleep, to breathe. That it healed from any wound, even those that would be lethal on a normal person. It would be around for a long time, they said. So none of the estate's staff would face their master's untimely wrath with it around.

And for a while it seemed true. Their master was less irritable. In the kitchens they knew it because he was not as particular about his food or drink, only sending a single dish back every week.

People wondered at what the thing in the basement was. It certainly didn't have any elven blood, the head butler affirmed, as despite its pointed ears. The more worldly of the maids was able to deny any rumors of it being beastkin. Even with its regeneration, it had none of the strength or build of an orc or troll.

The strongest rumor was that it was some sort of ghoul or zombie, not even alive, not truly able to feel. The kind of thing that existed only in horror movies. Some kind of botched soul magic had been attempted, only to resort in what screamed and pretended to be a person down there in the basement.

It could scream, could cry, could bleed like a person. But note the near black color of its blood. Note how it didn't need to breathe or eat. How it hissed like a feral animal at the sight of silver. How its fangs tore at its own lips like a rabid beast.

Never pity those in the basement, Beau's mother had told him long ago. That was when the master's victims had been people, homeless vagrants, those trafficked from foreign countries that used the few words of English they knew to beg.

It wasn't a kind world out there. Beau and his mother were only human. All they could do was work for their shelter and food. They had security here, knowing what was expected of them. Outside of the estate was an unknown element to Beau, who had only attended school and done little else, spending what few days he had off from work resting in the servants' quarters instead of exploring the outside world.

Beau's world was the estate. He had never known life without the occasional desperate screams emanating from the basement once every few months, lasting for a few days or a week at most until it was blissfully silent again.

This time it lasted longer, a week turning into months. The master had invested in remodeling part of the basement, making it soundproof, so he could have guests over despite having a 'guest' in the basement as well.

Something about the silence made everything more eerie. Beau had long since been inured to the screams, not startling at the sudden noises. He had always been grateful the servant's quarters were outside of the main building, so their sleep wasn't disturbed.

Once the silence filled the mansion, Beau had been assigned to bring the master meals, to ensure the man did not go hungry during the long hours spent torturing and tormenting the thing in the basement. Simple things, snacks the master could eat with one hand, the other dripping with that dark, unsettling blood.

The thing in the basement haunted Beau's nightmares ever since he began bringing the master food. It was rake thin, truly as ghoulish as the rumors said. It had unkempt hair so matted with gore that Beau had no clue what the original color had been. It had piercing red eyes, ones that gleamed even in the dim light of the basement. It had fangs, its canine teeth elongated and razor sharp.

Most of the time Beau saw it slumped on the floor. It was so corpselike that he was always surprised to see it move from where it lay in a pool of its own blood.

Beau had never thought he would grow to pity such a wretched thing. Not when he held no pity for the past victims. But he had never seen the past victims of his master, only heard their cries and screams. He had never been haunted by the sight of them, the taste of rotting blood in the air, the look in its eyes. Not even begging, but resigned. Like an old sick dog wasting away on the side of the road, knowing there would be no rescue or premature end to its suffering.

Every once in a while he was sent to leave snacks preemptively, as the master would in all likelihood visit the basement that evening after a stressful day at work.

Those moments down in the basement, leaving a charcuterie board or platter of fruit with only the thing down there to keep him company, they were the most harrowing.

Sometimes Beau was able to live up to his reputation, silent enough to leave the food at a side table and escape without waking the thing as it rested between its tortures. Most of the time he did not. The thing would be awake, eyes gleaming even in near darkness, its unnerving gaze following Beau.

It never spoke to him. Beau didn't know if it was smart enough to speak, to be honest.

This time was seemingly the same as always. The thing lay in a pool of its own dark blood, limp like a marionette with its strings cut. It wore little in the way of clothes, covered in healing wounds and its own blood as it was, there was no modesty to preserve, Beau supposed.

Beau placed the polished silver platter onto the table, opening the bottle of wine so it could breathe in anticipation of his master's arrival. The dry, almost sour smell of the white wine made Beau's nose wrinkle as he poured a careful amount into the glass, careful as he left the cork on the tray and pocketed the metal wrapping to throw away.

Thinly sliced meats and cheeses were arranged artistically, no flaws to be seen. Beau turned to leave the basement, his job done for now.

Then he caught sight of the thing. It was kneeling, closer than ever before. The chain connecting it to the wall was taut, and Beau was surprised it could withstand the strain with its emaciated body.

Its matted hair covered its face as it swayed on its knees.

Beau couldn't help but worry, not in the way of a servant fretting over a potentially broken possession of his master's, but how a person felt concern and compassion over someone obviously hurt.

He shouldn't let himself worry. He should turn and walk back up the staircase, to the kitchens where he would continue the tasks assigned to him. This was just another task, one already done, he couldn't-

The thing began to keen like a wounded animal. It slowly raised its head up to look at Beau, glimpses of scarlet between dirty locks of hair.

"I can't help you." Beau found himself saying before he could think better of it.

The keening died off and it slumped back, the chain finally lowering as it was given more slack.

"…" Beau looked between the pitiful creature and the platter of food. "…I can feed you? Just a piece of deli meat, would that help?"

Truthfully he didn't even know if the thing could eat, only that it didn't need to. It raised its head, eyes glimmering and looking so human, like it understood everything Beau had said.

Then it nodded.

"Okay." Beau spoke softly. He slipped a thin cut of capocollo off the platter, the marbled ham somehow looking more grisly in the lighting, with blood splattered on the floor.

He held it with pinched fingers, slowly crouching down and reaching out towards the thing. He could've thrown it, but that felt too demeaning when he was just trying to help.

"Here you go." Beau murmured.

The thing stirred again, straightening up, but already at the end of its chain. Beau felt bad for forcing it to exert itself so much, and leaned closer.

Bloodstained and cold hands grabbed at Beau's wrist. Every knuckle and bone seemed to be trying to escape its body, skin stretched over its skeleton like a horrific Halloween prop. Its nails were ragged and uncut, split and chipped with its own blood stuck under them.

Beau's pulse raced, and he pulled back, dropping the meat with a soft splat into one of the puddles of blood. One of the thing's nails sliced into his soft, pale skin.

Beau's blood welled up, glittering garnet under the light, the same shade as the thing's eyes.

And then it was truly over.

The thing pulled with strength Beau hadn't known it had, and Beau was swept off his feet, falling forward. His white dress shirt and black slacks soaked with blood as he sprawled onto the floor, breathless.

It still had a hold on his wrist, hunched over his hand, uncaring for the food now soiled on the ground.

"Let go-!" Beau gasped out, already trying to struggle and failing.

Then the creature bit down into his wrist, razor sharp fangs like knives through his flesh, scraping at his bones.

Beau screamed as a hot, searing pain zipped up from his wrist to his shoulder. He struggled again, feeling the fangs rip at muscles and nerves with every vain attempt to free himself, still screaming, hoping anyone could hear him, save him.

But the basement was soundproofed. Even if it weren't, all of the house's servants had long since learned to ignore the screams coming from the basement.

Beau grew faint with bloodloss and shock, held up only by his arm. He couldn't keep his head up, unable to even gather the air to scream again despite the agony. He could taste the blood pooled on the floor, foul on his tongue, yet his body had no strength to retch.

He couldn't resist as a hand sank into his hair, pulling his head up and baring his neck. His pulse was thready in his ears, the room darkening.

A agony bloomed from his neck, and Beaumont Mallory died, his throat ripped out by a vampire.

Soon enough, the master of the estate would make his way down the basement, leisurely as he anticipated a nice evening of wine and torture to destress from the day. He would find the his most recent and favorite plaything- a vampire he had been gifted by a business partner, a rare find in their circles with how isolated and secretive those enclaves could be- sobbing over a corpse.

He didn't remember the poor boy's name, or even his face, but it must've been one of his servants considering the clothes.

With a shout, the master would grab the stake from its place on one of the tables, a constant threat he had no intentions of using before now. He had enjoyed his toy that wouldn't break, a punching bag after his long days of work. But a dog that bit once would do so again.

The vampire didn't resist, still crying as its heart was staked, as it finally died the true death it had been wanting for months.

The master spat on the vampire's corpse, disgusted. He glanced to the corpse of the poor servant boy, only to watch the shredded skin of a pale throat began to knit back together.

Just like his now dead plaything.

Yet this one was once his servant and would be far more obedient.

He grinned, elation he hadn't felt since he was a young man washing through him.

Transferring the collar took just a moment, the silver chain enough to hold the beast. He went to his chair and sat, grabbing the wine glass. He delicately sniffed the white wine and tasted it.

It had been aired out perfectly, a great companion as he waited for his new toy to wake.

(Part Two) (Part Three)