#conditionated whumpee

[whump-place]

I love it when a Whumpee of any kind doesn't know that they are, in fact, a Whumpee.

Living weapon Whumpee? No, no. They are just stronger and have to prove their worth. They were trained? Well, yeah, but just because they are meant to be strong. They aren't a living weapon, they can do anything they want; right, Handler?

Pet Whumpee? No, that's absurd. Whumpee just likes being spoiled. Do they wear a collar and eat from a bowl? Yes. But that's only because they like it, nobody forces them to, actually, Master said they can take the collar off anytime if they don't like that one.

Lab Whumpee? Of course no. They are doing something good, they are helping people by allowing the doctors to test experiments on them. They want to help, and the Doctor always tells them they can leave. The pain and the sedatives aren't stopping them, are they?

Just Whumpee's that don't know anything better. That's the world they were born in, and the people around them tell them that that's how it's meant to be.

Why bother struggling against what's meant to be?

[whump-in-the-closet]

royal whump scenario where a servant witnesses the heir to the throne makes a mistake in their training—they flinch away during sparring. They dare to raise a hand to protect their face.

The heir, without waiting for their trainer to speak, drops to their knees and pulls their shirt off over their head. Their bottom lip trembles. They don’t beg they don’t speak they merely bow their head with the full crushing knowledge that mistakes cannot be made. Their back is already scarred with winding lines that crisscross their skin. And their trainer lifts a short-handled whip, “I really thought you would have learned courage by now.”

The servant presses back into the corner, a hand clasped over their mouth, horror burning like a newborn flame. They make brief eye contact with the heir and see fear— raw and pleading. The heir‘s gaze darts away almost instantly, faster than a moth in flight, as the whip cracks down

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had been broken for so long, and they usually didn’t care as long as they stayed away from the whumper’s wrath- but it changed when someone new came in. A new whumpee, one that was as defiant as the old one used to be- the first whumpee doesn’t know what to feel, specially when they’re looked at with disgust by the new captive.

[whump-galaxy]

Somewhat unusual sounds that the whumpee needs to sleep/relax peacefully.

A half working, droning air conditioner, reminding them of the more comfortable environments they slept in? Sure!

The sounds of heavy footsteps on wood floorboards above them, telling them the whumper is too busy with company? Alright.

The distant sounds of sobbing and screaming, assuring them they’re not today’s target? …why not?

[whumplump]

Day 2 of @augusnippets

Prompt used: platonic bathing

Not used: hair care / make-up

CW: nudity (non sexual), bruises, hurt/comfort

Caretaker carried Whumpee into the bathroom and calmly sat them on the stool in front of the sink. Whumpee flinched in pain from the movement.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" Caretaker asked worriedly.

Whumpee nodded no. They were too exhausted to speak. Their entire bodies hurt, the joints in their arms and legs felt like they were going to break. Their skin was covered in bruises and sore spots, sometimes purple, sometimes yellowish.

Caretaker slowly undressed them, being careful with their sore body. Whumpee didn't protest. Caretaker lifted them into a bridal carry again and placed them in the already full bathtub.

Time passed slowly as Caretaker cleaned the wounds and massaged Whumpee's back. The two sat in silence, just enjoying each other's company, a spasm of pain coming from Whumpee here or there, followed by an apology from Caretaker. Only when Caretaker focused on washing Whumpee's hair did the silence break with a gasp.

"All good?" Caretaker said.

Whumpee smiled. A bruised and tired but genuine smile. Then they giggled.

Caretaker giggled back nervously. "What is it?"

“Shampoo is only for the roots, and conditioner for the ends, silly!" Whumpee said, starting to laugh loudly.

They both laughed at the joke. The sounds of their laughter were music to each other's ears.

[chiharuuu22]

When Whumpee was with Whumper, Whumpee never experienced such a thing as sleeping peacefully. He was made not to sleep for days until he experienced severe hallucinations, or when he finally managed to sleep, Whumpee would be forcibly awakened. That's why you can see black eye circles like a panda on Whumpee's face. Don't ever think Whumpee sleeps in a good place. Just getting a flat and dry floor, he was already grateful. The temperature of the place? It's too hot that it makes you sweat from your hair to your feet, or it's too cold that it makes you shiver to the bone.

After being rescued, Whumpee experienced the first time he fell asleep comfortably without worry in Caretaker's arms and woke up again (after who knows how long) in a much better place. No one forced him to stay awake; he even fell asleep many times in the middle of the conversation. When he woke up in the middle of the night, Caretaker gently told him to go back to sleep. Whumpee will wake up slowly without being shocked to eat, take medicine, or clean his body. The place to sleep was clearly very good, on a comfortable bed with soft sheets, some soft pillows, a warm blanket that is always fixed in position if it is shifted by the Caretaker, and even several plushies that the Caretaker placed to accompany Whumpee. What's the room temperature? The caretaker always keeps the air conditioner on at the right temperature so that Whumpee sleeps soundly without getting too hot or cold.

[holidayinhell]

Heat Stroke

Whumpee is forced to walk home.

CWs: non-sexual nudity, extreme sunburn (yeah I'm still finishing the Whumpay prompts, got sidetracked my b)

Whumpee trudged across the molten asphalt on his blistered feet, each step more agonizing than the last. His breathing was heavy, each inhale a struggle, and shapes swam hazily in his vision as the intense sunlight bore down upon him. The air shimmered in the oppressive heat, distorting the landscape in a wavering mirage.

“Please,” Whumpee said under his breath, “please.”

He didn’t want to give Whumper the satisfaction of hearing him beg, but oh god, he needed water desperately. He was minutes, no, seconds away from collapsing. He would die soon if Whumper didn’t help him.

“I can’t. I can’t.” Whumpee moaned over his shoulder. “No more…” 

A window from the car behind him rolled down, sending cool air spilling out of the vehicle. 

Whumper spoke to him for the first time since he’d been stripped down and forced to walk across the desert in the blazing sun. 

“You made it all the way out here once already.” Whumper mocked. “You can make it back.”

“Please.” Whumpee shook. Water.. Oh god, water… he needed it so badly and couldn’t even say it.

“Keep going.” Whumper demanded through the driver's side window.

It was impressive that the little fucker had made it this far without complaint. His skin was practically glowing red and he hadn’t had a decent meal in at least, well, in months at this point. Then again, Whumpee always had been the prideful type.

“I can’t….” The man in front of the car said breathlessly. The sun beat down relentlessly on the stretch of desert highway, turning everything the light touched into a blistering furnace. His raw, burnt, bleeding feet stuck to the road with every step.

“That’s too damn bad.”

“Please, water. I need water.”

“I don’t have water.”

Tears welled in Whumpee’s eyes. There was no way Whumper didn’t have water, not here, not in the burning heat of the desert. He had water, he just refused to give it to Whumpee. Whumpee wasn’t sure if Whumper wanted him dead or not. Whumper had gone to a lot of effort to track him down, after all. But this punishment was grueling and by far the worst Whumpee had been subjected to yet.

“Please.” Whumpee said with a sniffle.

“I don’t have any goddamn water.”

Whumpee stopped in his tracks. He was entirely too fatigued to carry on in this state. Maybe Whumper would grant him mercy and finally run him over. He bent forward weakly, tresses of sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes as he cried softly. He crossed his arms over his badly sunburnt torso, bare and glowing red. Salty tears trickled down his swollen face, searing pain into every pore they trickled over and stinging his peeling, chapped lips.

“Help me.” He whispered so softly it was almost inaudible. He had never been so exhausted in his life. 

“Help me or kill me already!!” Whumpee screamed.

“Keep going.”

The white-hot hood of the car slammed into Whumpee’s raw, sunburnt ass, and he yowled in pain. The searing metal against his burnt skin was excruciating. His scream echoed in the blistering air.

There was a dull thud. Whumper slammed on the brakes and peered over the car’s dashboard, but Whumpee wasn’t in sight. He’d collapsed to the ground.

Whumper sighed, rolled his eyes, and shifted the gear stick to park. 

The warehouse was still over three miles away and this was taking fucking ages. He could have made it back there in only a few minutes if he was driving normally, but Whumpee was marching forward at a snail’s pace. 

This little punishment detour had cost Whumper at least two hours and almost a full tank of gas thanks to the air conditioner that was running on full blast. Whumper had admittedly misjudged just how cruel this walk of shame was, but when he remembered how angry he'd been when he discovered Whumpee had escaped, he felt pretty fucking justified.

“Fuckin’ christ.” Whumper slammed the car door closed behind him, scorching his hand on the burning door handle that had been baking in the sun all day. He could feel his shirt grow damp from perspiration the instant he stepped out of the air-conditioned car into the hot, shimmering air. Fuck Whumpee for dragging him out here at the hottest point of the day.

The heels of his boots didn’t click on the asphalt like they normally would, the road was so hot that it had become molten and sticky black tar stuck to the bottom of his shoes. He took a cursory glance at the state of his rubber soles and realized they’d already melted slightly. He imagined that Whumpee’s feet had burned raw within seconds of his punishment, no doubt every step he’d taken across the road had been agonizing. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” 

Whumpee nodded solemnly.

“You can’t go any further, then? Should I leave you here?” Whumpee’s eyes grew wide with fear as Whumper drew nearer, despite the blinding sunlight.

“No.”

“I think I should.”

“Please. Don’t…” Whumpee mumbled. “I’ll be good this time, I’ll--”

“You wanted your freedom, right Whumpee? This is what freedom looks like here.”

“I don’t want it anymore. I don’t. I’ll, I’ll do anything, everything you say…” Whumpee choked out between hitched breaths. “Water…”

Whumper sighed, fighting to conceal how pleased Whumpee’s desperation made him. “There’s three miles to go.”

One day. One single day was all the time that Whumpee had lasted before Whumper collected him. Life didn’t come easy in the desert; Whumpee had learned this lesson in the most brutal way. When he’d made his escape only 48 hours ago, he’d figured it was better to cook to death and die free than being chained up in the cool darkness of the warehouse for the rest of his life. 

He was wrong. Immensely wrong. Death was not better than life. Escaping was the single biggest mistake he had ever made, and he was paying for that mistake dearly.

Whumper watched as Whumpee fell forward and his chin slammed into the ground. His exposed, red chest nearly sizzled against the blacktop of the road. 

Good, thought Whumper. Might teach this defiant piece of shit how to be obedient.

“Get up.”

Whumpee laid motionless in place, eyes fixed on the pavement beneath him, his arms flailed out by his side. He was in so much pain that his body didn’t register it anymore.

“Get up. Now.” Whumper demanded.

Whumpee’s head rushed as he pushed his weight into his palms. He tried to lift himself but his muscles wouldn’t fire, his heart raced and beads of sweat rolled down his temple. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have another ounce of energy left.

“Last chance. Get. Up.”

“C-can’t. I can’t.”

“That’s too bad then.” Whumper sighed, turning on his heels to face the car. “Good luck out here.”

“Wait!” Whumpee cried desperately. “Don’t leave me here!”

“Don’t pity yourself, Whumpee.” Whumper said without glancing back at the puddle of a man on the ground.

Whumper walked away and climbed into the idling car. He took one last look at Whumpee, his naked, sunburnt form was still pressed face-down against the smoldering road. His back rose and fell quickly, from either crying or hyperventilating.

Whumper put the car in drive. He slowly rolled up next to Whumpee and dropped a cheap plastic water bottle from his window, which smacked Whumpee square on the back.

“Life is hard.” Whumper’s voice was dripping with contempt as he craned his neck out the window. “But I’ll let you choose whether you live or die. Stay out here if you like, try to survive if you can. I’ll just find your friend-- what’s his name again, Caretaker?-- and have him take your place.”

Whumpee shifted on the ground. “Don’t fucking touch him,” he growled. 

A smirk spread across Whumper’s face. It was so easy to get Whumpee to spill his secrets. Caretaker would be excellent leverage in the future.

“Option two is to come back. But this time you’re going to play by my rules.”

Whumpee fumbled for the water bottle blindly, finally finding it leaning against his hip. He twisted the cap off with all the strength he could muster and sipped on the water slowly. A wave of clarity rushed over him the second the moisture filled his mouth.

“I’ll come back with you. I won’t run away again, I swear.”

“And you’ll play by my rules. Say it.”

“...and I’ll play by your rules.”

“Good. Time to get the fuck out of here.”

Whumpee rose to his feet shakily. He was still fatigued but felt re-invigorated by the small amount of water in his system. He approached the passenger door and Whumper shot him a puzzled look.

“Whatcha doing there Whumpee?”

Whumpee blinked dumbly at the driver. “Aren't we going…?”

Whumper shook his head no.

“Oh no. You’re still gonna walk back.”

Whumpee’s form crumbled.

 “I gotta get gas. The warehouse is three miles east, when you get to Seven Devils Road take a right, a left, and then another left.”

Whumpee sniffled, his strength draining away as he collapsed under the weight of his exhaustion and despair.

“Whumpee. Hey, look at me.” Whumper tilted his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. 

He somehow forced his weak gaze into the other’s.

“If you’re not back by sundown, don’t fucking bother. I’m sure I’ll stumble across your corpse in a week or two.”

He rolled up the glass window and sped off.

Whumpee braced himself for the brutal journey back to his own personal hell.

[whumpshaped]

Hello, would you write a conditionated whumpee in recovery that was trained to fear certain words? Simple phrases that Caretaker might say mano times before realise that it scares Whumpee?

I would love to see a Caretaker comforting a Whumpee because Whumpee thought they were in trouble qhen Caretaker said something like: "good night" or "would you like to take a bath?"

tw conditioning, past trauma, flashbacks, fear of noncon drugging, past noncon drugging, emeto (self-induced), paranoia

“Good night, Whumpee.”

Whumpee tensed up immediately, eyes going wide. Caretaker didn’t have a chance to notice, given they were already switching the lights off and leaving, which meant that Whumpee was left to deal with the sudden wave of terror on their own in the dark.

“Good night, Whumpee,” Whumper said with a smile after having forced the pill down their throat. “Sweet dreams.”

There had been no pill. Had there? Had Caretaker put something in their dinner? The water?

They scrambled out of bed and ran to the bathroom, checking their pupils and their tongue. They didn’t feel dizzy. They didn’t feel faint.

“Good night, Whumpee.”

They knelt down by the toilet and jammed their fingers straight down their throat, trying to get as much of the food up as possible. In the back of their mind, they hoped they weren’t retching too loudly, but the overwhelming desire was to get rid of whatever they had unknowingly ingested.

They didn’t want to pass out. They didn’t want to be drugged into oblivion again. They’d had enough.

They only stopped when there was seemingly nothing else to throw up, the bile burning their mouth like the acid Whumper had so often used. They flushed and cleaned themself up, then dragged their abused body back to bed.

“Good night, Whumpee.”

They didn’t sleep a wink all night, only comforted by the fact that it meant they’d gotten rid of the drug successfully.

[seth-whumps]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 3

Vertigo / Concussion - whumpee JJ - 676 words

tw: breaking and entering lmao

--

Post-concussion days are the worst.

It's all JJ can think about, now, lounging in his studio apartment, awaiting information on the next mission. His head hurts, yeah, but that's not even the problem.

He can't… feel things.

The sheets are hot to the touch, the air is slightly breezy from the window AC, he can smell his own sweat, he can taste leftover blood in his mouth (stars above, he needs to brush his teeth), so yes, he can feel. His senses, the main five, are functioning just fine.

But sometimes, he just can't tell where his body is. It's like being pulled into an outside perspective where he can't feel his limbs. It's all vertigo, all dizziness and disorientation.

He's used to it, though. Concussions happened. This is not an unfamiliar sensation.

It's just… uncomfortable.

“On your left.”

JJ jolts, and it shocks him back into his body with the spike of pain hitting his brain. The window AC just spoke to him. He's hallucinating. That can't be normal.

“It's me, Journey.”

Oh.

Beyond the box air conditioner is a head of soft black hair and wide, calming blue eyes. Morrigan.

“What the fuck are you doing?” comes out of his mouth before he can even stop it. “How do you know where I live, what the hell–”

“I'm climbing into your house,” they say, matter-of-factly doing exactly that, “and I checked your files. Cavalry said you took a hit. I was sent to check on you.”

“Why you?” That's far too blunt, he realizes. “I mean–thanks. For breaking into my house. I think.”

“You're welcome,” they say, irritatingly neutral. “Let me see.”

“Uh.”

That's the issue. It's not that he thinks Morrigan is going to hurt him. But the trust they have is tenuous at its best and desperate at its worst. But then his brain winks out again, and suddenly he's floating, and he wants to scream.

“Fine.”

Morrigan's hands are cool as they guide him to a sitting position. They flash a light in his eyes, unruffled when he jolts away. “Concussion. Did you sleep?”

“Can't you just…” he wiggles his fingers vaguely. “Shine lights? X-ray me or something?”

“Because sometimes efficiency isn't as important.” There's a new note to their calm voice. It's thin. Wounded. Like shame. “It would make you uncomfortable. That isn't the goal.”

“What would?”

“If I checked you over the way I'm supposed to.”

Wait. Huh? “Are you… like, disobeying orders, or something?”

Morrigan's shoulders tense. Their hands go still, and they very slowly take a breath. “Possibly.”

“That's vague.” It doesn't make sense to him. Then again, nothing does. He can feel their hands on his shoulders, but his brain is fogged out like dusk at a beach. “…why?”

“I'm not sure,” they say, as if that's a normal way to answer that question, “but it makes me more comfortable when you are. I'm still checking you over. Thus I'm fulfilling the order. Ibuprofen?”

“God, yes.”

They grab him a snack and a drink, pass him the pill bottle. With his head basically reaching the ceiling, it takes a few tries to function. But Morrigan is patient. They don't fuss, or push, or take things away from him to do it better.

His eyes are struggling to stay open by this point. He wants to sleep off this vertigo.

“Don't sleep, please,” they remind him calmly, sitting on the windowsill they used to break in.

“Not gonna,” he mutters.

Morrigan watches them for a second, and then glances away. “I… will stay. Just to keep you awake.”

They are a stranger. An inhuman, metal trespasser. They broke into his house using the window like a lunatic.

But their posture is slumped. They're not staring.

Trying to make him comfortable.

“Not gonna kill me in my incapacitation, will you?” He mumbles.

There's a quick, short huff. “That doesn't seem very reasonable.”

JJ stares. “Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“Oh my god, you think I'm funny.”

“You know what? Maybe I will kick you while you're down, actually.”

--

and thus we discover that morrigan can and will break into your houe if they deem it necessary. i know it's less whump and more plot BUT they're my guys i need to write them all the time

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Tiny Whumpee vs...

Household Edition

ceiling fan

air conditioner

space heater

the shower

flyswatter

fly paper

mouse trap

the vacuum

a mop or broom

lava lamp

wires/electricity

a curling iron or hair straightener

a blow dryer

medicines meant for humans

laundry chute

washer/dryer

an iron

a high shelf

cleaning products

the fireplace

fire extinguisher

| Kitchen Edition | Craft Edition | 

[abhainnwhump]

"Nighty, Dream invited me to take botany classes 'n he said knew I was dyslexic 'n he'd read to me!"

Ribbon cheerfully annouced.

"Can I go? I know it is risky but can I? Horror can come with me if it is too risky to go alone!"

----------------------------------------------------------

Earlier...

"Dream, I think I can relate to Nightmare to a degree, you say you know your brother is in there but you don't seem to care about who he is currently and only who he once was. It... feels like conditional love. And when love is conditional, it can feel like you were never loved to begin with."

Cross realizes as he spoke that this a trans allegory.

-Gothic Ribbon Anon

First || Second || Third || Fourth

(Content warnings: Domestic abuse, toxic love, conditioned whumpee, transphobia? I'm not sure with Ribbon's circumstance being so questionable)

"Um, Nightmare? Dream wants me to come over to the Omega Timeline so we can take a botany class! He said he's going to help me read the assignment because he knows I have dyslexia!" Ribbon bounced, excitement glinting in her eyes. "Can I go? Please? Please? I can have Horror or Killer come with to guard me if it's too-"

"You spoke to Dream?"

Nightmare stopped writing his letter to look up at him. Ribbon froze in the middle of a bounce. Ribbon smiled for his sake. "Y- yeah. When we were on our last mission, Dream slipped me a note in battle. He said he just wants to hang out with me angry get to know me! So can I go?"

"Absolutely not." Nightmare stood up and stared down at her, making Ribbon gulp. She recognized Nightmare's mood swings from anywhere. "How could you even consider such a thing? You know Dream is dangerous, are you trying to make me worry? I have told you for talk to him for months. He's a liar, a fraud, he never came for you when you called his name. What makes you believe he cares for you now?"

Ribbon didn't like Nightmare's tone at all and looked away. She was a bit disappointed. It was one class, a plant class! He wasn't asking to go practice fighting. "But he promise-"

Nightmare struck Ribbon across the face. Ribbon yipped and held her cheek. "I apologize for that, but you are never, ever, meant to speak to Dream. It's for your safety. He only wants to take you away and confuse your messed up mind further. Do you understand?

Ribbon looked down, ashamed for even suggesting such a thing. Why was she so easy to manipulate? Nightmare noticed the regret and gave her a hug with his tendrils. "Aw, my sweet little angel. You're too stupid for your own good. Everyone wants to take advantage of you. If you want friends so badly, I'll pick them out for you. I can't have anyone messing with your innocent mind . . ."

================================================

Dream stared into the distance off his balcony, holding the clasp of is cape. The Omega Timeline was truly gorgeous if you knew where to look. Above the Waterfall, an area mixed up of the Waterfall areas of thirty AUs, it looked like a magical splash park. He wanted to take Ink here, it would help clear his head from what Nightmare did to him.

Cross peered next to him, holding his hand. Cross kept glancing at him with a questioning look. Eventually, Dream sighed. "Is there something you want to say? Are you okay, cookie dough?"

"Hm? Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking." Cross side. He picked a rock off the ground and threw it in the water. It made a mystical plunk and white patterns rippled through the spot. Dream tilted his head and Cross explained himself. "Whenever you talk about Nightmare, you always talk about wanting him back, getting your brother still in there, but you never say anything positive about him in the present. I know there isn't anything positive to say, I've seen it myself, but you always manage to find the good in anyone, it strange you can't do it with your own brother. It's like you only love him conditionally if he acts like the scared shy boy you once knew. When you love someone conditionally like that, it can come off as never loving them at all because you aren't willing to change. I almost relate in that way."

Dream took a moment to process what they heard. Cross could not choose to defend Nightmare, not after all he's been through. He squeezed his hand. "Cross, I would love Nightmare if he still acted like himself, but he kills innocents. It's completely different. If he didn't, I could accept the change. It's the same with Ink. But with him, he still can be saved. He's only been brainwashed for half a year, not the centuries Nightmare has been. We can still bring him back to his senses."

"True, he's pure evil, but I've heard you give excuses on why Dust slaughters more than Nightmare. You can't accept who he is now and that's not good for anyone." Cross zoned out for a moment. "The more I say it, the more it sounds like a trans allegory."

"I'm certain Nightmare is at least partially homophobic and transphobic, I don't think that's the case." Dream laughed weakly. He stared deep into the waterfall whispering and flowing below. It was beautiful. They waited for the day Ink could come here with him and they could be friends again."

[whump-place]

Living Weapon Whumpee that doesn't know what to do when Caretaker rescues them.

They only know fighting, and violence, and even sometimes order people around when their handler allows them, what are they supposed to do if Caretaker doesn't need them?

Caretaker is a good person, and they have a lot of security like guards 24/7 and cameras monitoring their house, why would they need Whumpee?

They say they want to help, to make Whumpee get better; but how is Whumpee supposed to be better when they can be useful?

Caretaker doesn't need them. They are safe, and that's a good thing. Then why do they feel so impotent?

If only Caretaker needed them. Or if they lacked guards, then at least Whumpee could be of some use. But no.

They are useless, and when Caretaker sees that, they are going to get rid of Whumpee.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #29: Conscience

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, stabbing

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

When his eyes fluttered open, Heather was right there. 

She was right on top of him. In her hand, she held a knife.

He was too stunned to even scream. But he really, really wanted to! Because why the fuck was she there? Oh God. He was so close to her. She was so close to him. His pulse went machine-gun fast. He could smell the orange blossom soap on her skin, the conditioner in her hair, the faint coffee scent of her sweater. He thought, for a moment, that he was dreaming, but this was too vivid to be a nightmare.

He swallowed. His throat was raw, arid and scratchy. He wanted to beg but he couldn't even bring himself to move. His limbs felt like they were wrapped in cellophane.

She pressed the knife lightly against his shirt. The point of the blade twisted against fabric.

His breathing slowed, the longer he stared at it. He was not in any danger, he realized, not any worse danger than before. If she was going to kill him, he didn’t mind dying again.

Well, then, this was a walk in the park! This was a slice of pie. Skittles and beer and vanilla ice cream. Life was going great. He was out of the basement. Everything was going to be okay.

He could even see sunshine! The curtains no longer covered the window. From his left, light spilled over the window ledge with reckless grace. The living room was much less dim and dreary. He could even see the blue sky, a merry robin-egg shade stretching over the snow. Jackie could get drunk on that sight.

She narrowed her eyes, as if just noticing he was awake. “You're quiet.”

He shook his head and left it at that. He felt much better, compared to last night. Sleeping in the basement was hard. He would wake up in bursts and starts, easily startled by a noise he’d imagined or a spider darting across the wall. This was his first deep rest in a while.

“I was checking if you were asleep,” she said.

Jackie nodded distantly, already thinking of other things.

Just then, the doorbell chimed. She cleared her throat and stood up, off the sofa, and walked around the corner. The door opened. He didn’t get up. Back then, he would have taken this opportunity for escape with eager arms, but escape was a distant pipe dream now. He was so much older, so much more exhausted. Shameful, to give in so easily, but…

Outside the window, a cardinal flitted across the snow. He closed his eyes and put his head back down. The sofa was so comfortable. Shameful, this docile sort of life, but he was happy.

The front door was not far from the living room. Jackie could hear the faint murmur of conversation. Nobody he knew, nobody he could recognize.

It was brief. Only a couple of words were exchanged, then the door was shut again.

There was the dull crunch of footsteps in the snow, and the lock clicked into place. He heard more footsteps, echoing against the wood floors. Outside, a bird tittered its song, piecing together a hesitant melody. Branches crackled in the cold.  

He heard a heavier thump, closer to him. Jackie started upright. There was a white box at the foot of the sofa. Kind of like the boxes bakeries used for cakes. It was heavy, judging from the sound, but not too big. Only about five inches tall, five inches wide. There was no label on it, no shipping company, not even an address.

Heather hadn’t put the knife down. Did the visitor notice? Did they not care? Her stare was boring holes into him. She stepped closer, until they were no more than a rat’s-tail apart, and he did nothing.

Before he could even register what had happened, he flinched. There was a blur of movement. A sharp motion. The ache in his chest flared up to a burst, and he clutched the wound on instinct. A spurt of blood dripped down the knife and across the curve of her hand. She had stabbed him. He could hear his pulse get weaker, feel its sad convulsions in his throat.

“A—ah. Shit.” He would never get used to the pain of dying, no matter how often it happened. He pressed a shaky hand to the knife’s handle. “Good morning t—to you too.”

Heather made a slight, small choking sound. Her hair hung down like torn rags around her face, brushing the edges of his jaw. She staggered, then… put her head down on his shoulder. Tears wetted his shirt. Their cold, salty sting bled through the fabric to his skin.

“Oh.” He cringed. This was not his idea of a good morning.

“Jesus…” She shuddered against the crook of his neck, against his chest.

“Yeah. It happens. Do you want a hug? Or… what’s in the box?”

"Morphine.”

Not all her drugs were homemade, then. “Do you want some morphine too?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “Yes to both, please.”

He didn’t know how to administer morphine, or how to reach them with Heather leaning on his shoulder, so he settled for the hug. Around her waist, around the thick maroon fabric of her sweater.

He patted her back, a rhythmic motion below her shoulder blades. “There, there. It’s okay. Why are you sad?”

“I—“ Her voice hitched. “I stabbed you.”

“I’m fine. I’m immortal, remember? I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not that, it’s—I don’t know why I’m being so cruel to you, Jackie. I don’t know! I wish you would—” Another hitch. “But it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just scared.”

“Yeah…” He glanced down at the knife. His slow-dripping blood had an odd viscosity to it, and it was so dark that it nearly shone black. The blade was embedded so deep in him that it was barely visible, rimmed by the slightest glint of light. It was one of those kitchen knives. They usually came in a set. Three silver circles dotted the handle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even want to keep you here. I was going to kill you. But I don’t—what was I supposed to do? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I forgive you.”

“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re saying whatever you think will make me happy. You hate me. You should hate me.”

Such a picky girl. Take the forgiveness and leave, or else say nothing, because there was nothing he could say back. If he kept acting cute, she would hurt him regardless, and if he started spitting insults at her, she would probably bash his head into the wall. But it wasn’t his opinion she was searching for—no, he was a prop for her guilty conscience, and he’d have to play along.

“I love you, Heather.” He pressed up against the side of her face. “Don’t go.”

“You…” She let go of the knife. This shifting caused his wound to sting anew, but he made an effort not to wince. “You don’t love me. I hurt you.”

“I don’t care. Just… don’t leave me alone again. Please. It was horrible. I don’t want to go back.”

“I won’t.”

A prop, a perfect prop, never complaining or talking back. A doll, a sweet and shallow toy. Maybe that was what she wanted. Jackie probably couldn’t do that for her, but he could try.

The doorbell rang again.

She sat up straight almost instantly, tearing away from him. He felt a dizzy ache clog up his throat, as her heat left his skin. She scrambled off the sofa, conjured up yet another tissue. After impatiently rubbing at her eyes, she threw it on the coffee table. Off and around the corner she went.

There was a shrill sound—it was the door swinging open. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Hello, officer.”

Officer. 

Jackie froze like a deer. 

He clutched the knife still stuck between his ribs until his knuckles felt sore. If he screamed now—no, Heather would lock him alone again, and she’d kill the witnesses, whatever it took to silence him. He stared at the crumpled tissue instead. A torn, crushed, fragile thing. So immaterial in the glaring sunlight.

“Hello.” The voice was rough but reedy, husky but not deep. “I wanted to ask a few questions—“

“Questions?” Heather’s voice was calm, even confident. “Ask away, officer. Is something wrong?”

“There’s been a disappearance in this neighbourhood.” Jackie’s heart pounded like snares in a metal crusher. “Have you heard anything about Matthew Markham?”

Oh. Of course. The dead body. The unlucky guy who had annoyed Heather. Of course nobody was looking for Jackie. He swallowed the sinking feeling in his gut and continued to listen.

“No, I haven’t heard anything. My apologies.”

“That’s alright. We've been searching the area, you know how it goes. Would you mind if we talked inside your home?” There was a tiny creak—Jackie imagined him leaning forward, trying to push through the doorway.

“Do you have a warrant, officer?”

There was a curt, painfully obvious pause. “I'll return in two weeks or so. I appreciate your help.”

“Okay, officer. I hope you can find Matthew.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

The door closed. He wasn’t a dirty cop, then. Not some pig. What luck. Jackie wanted to kick the guy. If only he were a brute! The law was fair, but it was not always kind. If only he’d barged in, shoved Heather aside, and taken Jackie home…

Home? What home? The apartment was gone. Repossessed, returned to the landlords, rendered to dust and white-wash wood. This was his home now.

“Jackie!” Heather ran back into the room. All that confident composure had crumbled away. Panic warbled in her voice. “Fuck! What should I do?”

He sat up straighter. “Why are you asking me?”

“Who the fuck else should I ask? Matthew?” She began to pace beside the table, back and forth, tracing her steps over and over. She ran a tensed hand through her hair. “Shit, shit, this is bad.” She paused her pacing to glance at him. “Don’t just stare at me. You have a plan, right?”

“Not really. Sorry."

This was not the answer she wanted, but she finally stopped running laps across the living room. Instead, she stood against the wall opposite him, looking more haggard than ever. Jackie seriously doubted that this mysterious cop with a missing warrant could rescue him. If Heather thought he was in danger of being discovered, she wouldn’t simply give up and let him go. She’d stuff him in a closet, or hide him in her trunk, or lock him up somewhere equally uncomfortable. It was in his best interests to nudge her towards a plan that didn’t involve being shoved into small spaces.

“Heather. Do you trust me?”

She laughed without mirth, her head bent down, her ruffled hair falling over her eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “I get it. It doesn’t matter. More importantly—you have a lot of money, right? You’ve got a rich daddy who up and died or something. That’s why you can afford this house and all those drugs and still never go to work. That’s how you got all those nice chiffon scarves. Am I wrong?”

“You’re… uh, you’re right. I live off a trust fund. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Lucky guess.” Nobody who earned their own living had time to play with pharmaceutical drugs. ”Listen, if you’ve got the money, we could just leave. Go to Hawaii, maybe.”

“Leave… how? We can’t drive to Hawaii. Can’t take a plane, either. I don’t have your passport, it would look suspicious. Perhaps we could go to…”

“Kentucky?”

“No. I was thinking of somewhere temporary, like…”

“A hotel?”

“A hotel!” She clapped her hands together. “You sly devil. That’s perfect. They won’t suspect a thing.”

Sly devil. That was a new one. Sounded coy. Very suave. Better nickname than subject, anyhow. “When are we leaving, then?”

“I’d say… three days to pack, then we can leave right away.”

And he hoped, crossed his heart and hoped, that this would not backfire. Just one nice thing. Just one streak of luck. Lord knew he needed a break. He just needed this to go right. Just one good day.

“By the way,” she said, gesturing to his chest, “you’ve got a little something…” 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He wrenched the knife from his heart. His blood soaked the front of his shirt and smudged on his hands. For a minute, he could not feel his pulse—how odd. He did not have a heartbeat at all.

Heather took the knife from his hands. Although she hesitated, as if she wanted to speak, she left the room quietly.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

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[pigeonwhumps]

Routine

Finding Safety masterlist

Whump Girl Summer day 4: Rescue

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch

Pet thinks about her weekly routine, and eventually, with the help and encouragement of a nice delivery man and his cousin, makes a change to it.

3.3k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, shock collar, implied rape/non-con, beating, dehumanisation, brief whumpee thinks caretaker is new master (at the end), mention of scarification, mention of public humiliation, mention of starvation

Pet's weekly routine doesn't change much. Every day, she wakes up in time to make Sir's breakfast (three rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, two slices of toast, and exactly eight ounces of orange juice) and get him ready for work. Sometimes, if she's good, he'll give her a pat on the head before leaving.

Sometimes, if she's not, he'll leave her with shoulders mottled and aching.

Then she has to clean the house until it's spotless, and everything's in the correct position. There's not a speck of dust to be seen once she's finished, not an object out of place.

On Mondays, the shopping's delivered. The doorbell is connected to her collar, the low shock making sure she knows it's been pressed, but the delivery man doesn't ring it anymore. She's not sure why.

It's always delivered by the same young man. He's nice, talks to her like she doesn't have a collar around her neck. Brings the shopping all the way into the kitchen when he doesn't have to. His name is Mr Jason.

One day, he hands her a slip of paper with a phone number on. Tells her that if it ever gets too much, this life, to call someone called Sandy on that number.

She's okay though. Why wouldn't she be? This is the life she chose.

She puts the shopping away perfectly, everything in its place, exactly where it should be. Exactly where Sir requires it.

She sorts, irons and stores the laundry twice a week, hers (maid outfits, which according to Sir's friend are fashionable) hanging in a small closet in his room. Everything that Sir gives her is in her closet. She doesn't have much – a pet bed, clothes, disciplinary tools that make her shiver to look at them so she tries not to unless it's absolutely necessary – but it's everything she needs. Sir takes care of her every need, she doesn't need anything of her own.

Sometimes she bakes. Sometimes she cooks. Sometimes she does neither. Sir doesn't always have a plan for his meals, and on those occasions, Pet knows she has to wait until he's home, until she can receive clues or instructions on what he wants. She always bakes on Thursdays, so he can have enough homemade snacks to sustain him throughout the week.

Once the day's chores are complete, she has to clean herself. That's important. Even if she will undo the work after Sir gets home, she has to be clean and presentable and smell nice for him when he does. Everything has to be perfect.

She washes herself, every nook and cranny, carefully scrubbing between her fingers and toes, making sure to use the strongly-scented soaps and conditioner that Sir likes so much.

Ten minutes before Sir is due to arrive home, Pet's shock collar goes off. It's a low setting, just to let her know Sir needs her. She inspects the house, making sure that everything's in its proper place. No room for sloppiness here.

Five minutes later, it goes off again. She starts the coffee maker. It takes five minutes to brew, and then it will be ready for her to pour him a cup when he gets home. She has to turn it on at exactly the right moment, his coffee mustn't be too hot or too cold. Then she kneels beside the front door, ready to welcome Sir home.

The first thing he does, once he's drunk his coffee, is inspect the house, and her, thoroughly. He strips and examines every part of her, and her clothes, and then does the same with the house. Every speck of dust missed, every part of the bathroom that isn't sparkling enough, every packet that isn't in exactly the right place, it all gets tallied up. Everything wrong with her, too, a slightly loose hair ribbon, a drop of damp left between her toes, a minute incorrection of posture, that all goes down. That's the number of hits her shoulders will take. Punishing her is, apparently, Sir's work de-stressor. That's what he said to his friend once, and Pet remembers. She always remembers. She has to, she can't afford to make mistakes.

The tally goes down on the big chart, too, along with anything unusually good she's done, in preparation for Sunday.

That evening, as every evening, she is at Sir's beck and call, serving his every request. Her collar vibrates frequently as he calls on her often, sometimes for drinks, food, company... and sometimes for other things.

Pet's collar is like a bell in those old-timey British films Sir likes to watch, she muses sometimes. It calls her to service. Only the collar is silent, and it hurts, too.

Silent. Silent like she is. Silent like she has to be, because that's the way Sir likes it. Unless Sir requests otherwise, of course. Silent movements, silent chores, silent as a mouse. Only squeaking for his amusement when her punishments become entertainment.

On Monday and Wednesday evenings, Sir takes her into his bed and has sex with her. He's talked about experimenting, he's used a few toys, but nothing major. Not yet.

She's not sure how she feels about that idea.

On Fridays, Sir works from home. She doesn't spend all day doing chores then, instead she waits on him, bringing him drinks and snacks and papers, whatever it is he needs when he calls for her. Stress relief, sometimes. If she's lucky it just involves roughly petting her, but it's often more than that. She's used to the taste by now, though, it's okay. Whatever Sir wants is what she wants. Even if it leaves her black and blue and red, or with a sour taste in her mouth and an aching jaw.

Her neck hurts the most on Fridays, shivering with phantom shocks for hours more that night, after even the mice have settled down and gone to sleep.

On alternating Saturdays, Sir goes out with his friends, or they visit each others' houses. Some of them have pets too. Some just like to play with her. She doesn't like it quite so much.

Her least favourite game is when they take the pets out someplace public, and she has to stay perfectly still and silent, perfectly secretive, as they do what they like to her. The first pet to cry out or be otherwise noticeable loses.

She doesn't like to lose. That's never good. Sir doesn't like it at all. It's especially bad if a member of the public notices, says something. She hates it when that happens.

Then come Sundays. A lazy lie in for Sir with plenty of sex, and then the charging of the three sets of shock collar batteries that have been used that week. That's when she gets her punishment.

It could be a reward, of course, in theory, if she made up enough good points on her tally, but she could never do that. She's not certain it's even possible, or if Sir rigs it. He might.

Sir has used lots of different punishments in the past. Stress positions, beatings, small cuts in sensitive places. Nothing that will scar.

The only scars she has are the section of her right shoulder that Sir and his friends use as an ashtray, and Sir's initials on her inner thigh, where no-one else can see. The latter, he called scarification, seeming very pleased when he did it.

She's not pleased. She thinks she should be, but she isn't.

Sir has a special wipe-clean room for Sunday punishments, in the basement, that she has to clean until it's spick and span. That's what he says, spick and span.

His current favourite punishment is to tie her spread-eagled to hooks in the floor and ceiling, upside-down and naked, and just beat on her with whatever's to hand. Sometimes, it is his hand. She's had broken bones a few times, although Sir usually tries not to do that. He says bruises make her look prettier, so they're fine, provided they can be mostly covered up. He tries to avoid them in the places her clothes won't cover.

Bruises are socially acceptable on pets, although not too many. Apparently.

Then, once the batteries are charged and the shock collar is back on, it's time for a film and a takeaway. If Pet's lucky, if she's affectionate enough, she'll be hand-fed the leftover crusts and crumbs. Otherwise, it's her usual pet food, ordered on a subscription from somewhere she can't read the logo of. Enough to keep her fed, bones peeping through the skin like they should in fashionable pets. That's what all the magazines show, the ones that Sir flicks through and then discards with a snort. But there's no variety, and sometimes she finds herself wishing that there was.

She ignores the look of pity the delivery man gives her as he hands over the bags of warm food. She always does. She's as wide-eyed and pleading as possible with Sir, so much nudging affection, and maybe, hopefully, this time she'll be allowed some of his tasty leftovers. Maybe even tasty food of her own, one day.

Sir's friend petsat once, and she got a pet ice cream from his girlfriend then. It was like a cloud on her tongue.

A cold cloud. Maybe clouds are cold, though, it's not like she's ever been up there.

Sometimes she daydreams about having an ice cream again.

She daydreams about clouds, too. She likes to watch them skud past. Shape them, mould them, name them. Pretend they're something they're not.

Sometimes she feels like she's pretending too. Waiting for a gust of wind to blow her out of this life and into another.

This is the life she chose. But she isn't sure she'd choose it again.

One Monday, Mr Jason arrives with the shopping. He looks at her, wearing a posture collar over her shock collar because Sir thinks she isn't good enough, bruises peeking out from under the sleeves and skirt hems. Everything aches, she could barely move for aching that morning, bruised stiffness setting in. She's one wrong step away from being sent to a retraining centre, though, and regardless of that she'd have to do her job, so she goes through the motions of it all.

And then there's a knock on the door, and her careful posture, the way she's holding herself to keep the weight away from the worst pain, almost breaks.

Mr Jason takes one look at her. Just one look, catching so much, and he says two words.

"Call xem."

So Pet does. After Mr Jason's left, she calls, doing her chores at the same time. She can't read the numbers but she copies the shapes into Sir's landline. They speak for hours, as Mx Sandy works out a plan.

Her beating that evening is worse than normal because of her inattention during the call, with a metal and leather cane as Sir orders her to select the weapon that will cause the most pain without scarring or breaking anything. She obeys, her posture apparently not at its best still. She'll have to work on that then.

The next day, Sir comes home with a yoke and a box of pet cams. He explains that they're so Sir can watch her at work, to see why she's misbehaving so much, and then he can send her to the trainers with appropriate instructions the next time he goes on a business trip. He says that he doesn't understand what's happened, but that her behaviour needs fixing.

Pet thinks that perhaps, if he was a little more careful with his Sunday punishments, then it would be easier for her to behave during the week.

At least she won't have to go on the business trip. She feels sorry for the rental pet he'll undoubtedly get, though.

Then Sir makes her kneel and passes the yoke over her head, fastening it around her neck. The wooden sides sit on her shoulders, draping slightly over the very tops of her arms. It's not too bad like this, but then he fastens weights to it, and she struggles to keep her shoulders at the correct height.

This is to fix her posture. She's going to wear it for the next week and then they'll see how she is. Whether he also needs to spend money on training her in that, too.

The yoke worked on his friend's pet, apparently. DIY posture training. Pet remembers seeing it on him, at Sir's friend's house. It looked like it hurt.

She's grateful that she at least doesn't have to wear it at night. A small shock emits from her collar when it is to go on and off.

She can't read a clock, but she doesn't need to with her shock collar.

Sir's going to install the cameras the weekend after this, when his friend's free to help. Pet calls Mx Sandy the next day, making sure to be very careful with the landline, and xie moves the plan forward a week.

On Saturday, Sir's friends come to visit. Not the camera-installing one, thankfully. They laugh at Pet in her yoke, and hang weights from it and use it as an increasingly heavy table until she collapses. Then Sir, drunk Sir, the worst kind of Sir, breaks a glass on the back of her head, the one that cracked when she fell.

Now her head is covered in cuts and beer and then stinging cuts.

She hates them all. She knew it was coming, they did it to another pet before, but it still hurts. Why can't Sir care without hurting her? Is that the only way to be loved, as a pet?

It seems to take a very long time, but Monday finally comes. Mr Jason arrives at the normal time, his eyes widening when he sees her. She's glad he's not seeing her at her worst, at least.

He helps her put away the shopping quickly, side-by-side, exactly the way she'd do it alone. The longer time frame there is for an investigation into her departure, the better. Then he leads her outside.

They can't leave the yoke or collar here. Both are padlocked on, it would be obvious she had help.

"In here, until we get out of the gates. My cousin's in the back."

He helps her climb into the truck, where she collapses to her knees, the weight suddenly too much. The person who must be Mx Sandy peers out from behind a stack of crates.

"Hi. I'm Sandy. Let me help you get those things off?"

Pet nods, crawling as close as she can, and Mx Sandy meets her in the middle.

"Okay. Let's see if I can pick these locks. I'm going to come around behind you now, don't panic."

Pet nods, and Mx Sandy clambers behind her, fiddling with the locks on her yoke. Xie lifts the yoke off, and Pet's head sags. It feels suddenly weightless, but she's too weary to hold it up.

There's a tiny click and Pet's leather shock collar is peeled away. She swallows hard and doesn't feel the press of soft leather or plastic against her throat. It's strange.

"That's better, I bet. Put this jumper and shoes on. Maid outfits aren't uncommon with pets around here and I don't want people getting suspicious."

Pet nods and shrugs on the knee-length green jumper and trainers Mx Sandy hands her. They're surprisingly comfortable. She pulls down the sleeves until they're exactly even on both sides, and checks that the laces are symmetrical.

As clothes should be.

"Thank you, mx."

"Just Sandy. Ready?" Pet nods again, unsure what she's meant to be ready for, and Mx Sandy knocks hard on the metal dividing them from Mr Jason.

A few seconds later, the lorry comes to a stop, and Mr Jason rolls up the back of the lorry.

"We're walking the rest of the way," explains Mx Sandy– no, just Sandy. She has to be exactly right. She can't make another mistake. "Safer for Jay that way."

He holds out his hand to help Pet out, and she takes it, stepping down as gracefully as she can manage. "Good luck. See you next weekend, cuz."

Sandy makes a face at that. "Don't get caught."

Mr Jason (Jay?) climbs back into his lorry and drives away, leaving Pet alone with Sandy in the large, empty, secluded car park. Xie takes her hand before she can worry too much.

"Let's go. It's not far from here."

Pet keeps her head high as they walk, graceful, elegant. A good pet should always be so. Even, maybe especially, if everything still aches and she's struggling to hold herself up. That's good, it means she still knows how to behave, if she can do that.

They keep walking until they reach a brick house in a nondescript street, and Sandy unlocks the door, leading Pet inside.

There's nobody around, although there's signs of inhabitance everywhere. Clothes draped over doors, shoes piled by the entrance, a whiteboard covered in sheets of paper and pictures drawn in drywipe. She has the urge to tidy it all up before someone gets in trouble for it.

"Dryer's broken at the moment. I'll show you to your room, Tom's out at the moment so it's all yours. I suggest you change and take a nap before we do anything else."

Pet nods, and follows Sandy upstairs. The room is spacious, two single beds lined up neatly opposite each other. One has plain blue covers, neatly tucked, while the other's are a repeating safari pattern.

Pet's not sure what a safari is, or where the headache comes from, but she pushes it away as she has done so many times before.

The blue-covered bed has a neat pile of clothes at the end, and she picks them up, carefully changing into them as Sandy quickly turns xier back. The fleecy pyjamas are warm and soft, covering her nicely but leaving her forearms free. She certainly never had clothes this soft from Sir and she wraps her arms around herself, savouring the lack of thin, scratchy material that made up her usual outfit with Sir.

Pet notices a clock on the wall. That's reassuring, somehow. Maybe Sandy doesn't rely on electric shocks to tell xier pets the time.

"The bed's for you to sleep in. Take a nap for as long as you need, I don't intend on timing you or anything. You must be exhausted."

"Thank you, mx. What are my duties when I wake up?"

Sandy pauses for a moment. "We'll work that out when you're feeling better. Nothing more than anyone else here. One thing I'd like you to start thinking about is your name. I want you to choose one you like, rather than Pet. Is that okay?"

Pet nods. She's going to have to keep a close eye on Sandy to choose a name she can be sure xie'll like, but that's acceptable, if nerve-wracking. What if she chooses the wrong name?

Still, she can't disobey.

"Yes, mx."

At a gesture from Sandy she climbs into the bed, curling the duvet around herself until it covers her completely. She's so warm, she doesn't remember the last time she was so comfortably warm.

Sandy rests a hand on her head and she leans into it. She knows she'll have to pay for the non-earned kind touches later, but that's okay. They make her feel so much better that that's okay.

"Go to sleep, honey. We'll sort everything out when you wake up."

And she does. And for the first time in years, she sleeps without being awoken by a shock collar.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Carlos & Bailey: An Interactive Story #6

Masterlist | Previous

Content: Burns, vampire whumpee, multiple whumpees, reader's POV.

You chose to say: “Would it help if I grabbed some more quilts to wrap you in?”

“How ‘bout I grab another quilt to wrap you in?” you offer after some contemplation. Neither of them respond, but you can see the blanket move as one of them - presumably Carlos - timidly nods their head. 

So you head inside and grab the nearest one that’s currently draped off the back off the couch in the living room. It isn’t all that big, but it’s thick and certainly able to keep the sunlight at bay if used with the one they already have out in the car. So, after tucking it under your arm you make your way back out into the garage and announce your presence to avoid scaring them, before draping it over Carlos’ lower half. 

“One at a time,” you instruct them, keeping a hand on Carlos’ shoulder to let him know you’re there as he reluctantly shuffles backwards towards you. There’s little terrified whines coming from beneath the blanket, and when he’s as far back as he can go, you ensure that he’s wrapped up nicely before bringing him into a bridal carry. 

Bailey doesn’t even wait for you to come back with the blankets, much to your surprise. It’s as you’re heading into the house with the intention of placing him on the floor just inside the door that you hear a thud, followed by a chilling scream and frantic footsteps as the second vampire races for the first bit of shade he sees. 

Poking your head out again, the events are pretty clear. He’s already got sweltering blisters and little areas of burnt flesh on his back and side, and there’s blood in the shape of messy footprints leading all the way to where he’s currently curled up. You realise the sun on the concrete must have burnt his feet as he got out. 

Before you can offer any help, Carlos is already rushing past you with one of the blankets he’d been wearing bundled up in his arms. He kneels down and hastily wraps it around Bailey’s bunched over form, despite the lack of sun in that area. 

Only then does Bailey begrudgingly move from his spot again. He and Carlos both timidly follow you inside, breathing small sighs of relief at the cool air radiating from the air conditioner. It has to feel good on Bailey’s fresh burns at least. You wonder why on earth he’d do such a thing. You had blankets ready for him - he just had to lie there for a little while longer. It makes no sense. 

This vampire is going to be hard work if you decide to house them for more than a few days. It hasn’t even been several hours and he’s already injured himself. You can’t afford to give him more blood to help him heal today. 

“Can I take a look at those wounds?” you eventually ask. There is a moment of silence before you receive a glare from the injured creature sitting on the floor by the door. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses, curling up just that bit more to further prove his point. “It’ll heal on it’s own. I don’t need you, human.”

There is a layer of condescension to his words, and Carlos clearly hears it, too. He tenses up immensely, seemingly preparing for some form of punishment. It’s clear Bailey’s behaviour has gotten them both into trouble before. 

Taglist: @alexkolax @ardebatis @aseasonwithclara @bones-arent-real @choppedflowermuffinchild @doodlepoodle154 @florissimps @littlefaefeather @neurodivergentcyborg @pepperonyscience @road-trip-to-jupiter @whump-it @whumpsday @whump-queen @whumpshaped @whumptier @whumpycries @whumpzone @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @zillastar13

[i-eat-worlds]

local caretaker outraged to find that whumpee using 3-in-1 shampoo conditioner body wash