#difficult whumpee

[letitbehurt]

It’s a good day to grab Whumpee by the hair and shove their head underwater.

[chiharuuu22]

Caretaker always smiles. Always and every time. A gentle and calming smile.

Whumpee is happy to see. When Caretaker was joking with the team members, when she was cooking in the kitchen, when she was gardening, when she was looking at Whumpee and the others, In fact, when they were preparing to fight Whumper, Caretaker never lost her smile. A warm smile melts any unpleasant atmosphere.

When they managed to win against Whumper and Whumpee underwent a period of recovery, Caretaker's smile became one of the "medicines" Whumpee needed. The smile that greeted him every morning, the smile when Whumpee succeeded in making progress in his healing, the smile that was expressed when adjusting the position of the blanket, the smile when treating the wounds of Whumpee and the rest of the team—a beautiful smile.

It felt like Caretaker had never been sad, let alone cried.

Ah no.

Whumpee had seen her once, when he was still half-conscious and unable to move. The cry that Caretaker made secretly in the middle of the night. Tears and sobs came out of the mouth of the person who was always smiling while holding Whumpee's hand in prayer.

Whumpee knows that his weak condition makes Caretaker cry and always wants to say that he is much better, so Caretaker doesn't have to cry anymore. However, when he saw Caretaker's smile in the morning, Whumpee thought better of it. Caretaker's smile was too sincere and beautiful to be ruined by crying if Whumpee said what was on his mind.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

It had been a stupid mistake- the whumpee hadn’t even meant to anger the whumper, but no matter how much they begged and tried to explain themselves, the whumper didn’t care. Every night the whumpee blamed themselves for their situation, and could only hope for rescue.

[whumpitisthen]

I think Whumper should punch Whumpee in the throat. For fun.

[b0amagination]

fucking obsessed with a chair in the bathroom in a whump scene. the kind that belongs in a dining room or a kitchen.

this chair Does Not Belong Here. something Wrong is happening here. why is so much time being spent in this room that a chair is suddenly so necessary that one would drag it from The Other Room

sitting on the toilet simply would not suffice, no no no. it's CHAIR TIME

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

The Winged Servant - 2

cws: royal whump, winged whumpee, manipulation, threats of punishment, whumpee is super conditioned, female whumper, male whumpee, lmk if i missed any!

masterlist

I knocked on Her Majesty’s door and entered as soon as I heard “Come in,” careful not to let any of her food get out of place while I held the tray in one hand. Most of it wasn’t difficult, just the grapes—I’d only ever had problems with the grapes, because they were the only food item in Her Majesty’s breakfast that would roll around with any movement. Luckily, everything stayed in place as the tray passed from hand to hand as I closed the door softly behind me.

“You’re late.”

Fuck. Was I late? I hadn’t noticed, but the edges of my memory were fuzzy this morning, it was early, I-

I hadn’t bowed. That was something I was supposed to do every time I was in the presence of Her Majesty. I really was performing horribly this morning. I could fix this. I could fix this. I knew how to fix things like this. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” I told her, dropping to my knees and leaning forward. My wings were sore, but the sooner I perfected my behavior the sooner they would rest, so I pushed them forward and out until I could freeze in the picturesque bow that Her Majesty liked me to be in.

“Don’t mumble to me.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” I repeated, enunciating this time. She was right; it was disrespectful not to speak as clearly as possible to her. “I was awoken earlier than I’m used to, but I shouldn’t have taken so long to get here. It won’t happen again.”

“Christ, Onyx, now you’re trying to pin the blame of your incompetence on waking up early? That’s a pathetic excuse, and besides, you’re my servant. You’re supposed to be able to do the things I need you to. Do I need to remind you of that?”

I would not shake. I would not shake, it made me look pathetic and it would make her breakfast move around on the tray. She hated when it did that, and I didn’t think I could stand her being mad at me for another thing right now, no matter how deserved.

“I have places to be,” she told me as she pulled the tray of food out of my hands, and I released the breath I’d been holding. “Do not think that you’re off the hook for this morning, but I don’t have time for this right now. We'll revisit this tonight. Understand?”

I nodded, standing back up. Maybe if I did everything else right today I could get back in her good graces. I’d still have to be punished for being late, of course—that was deserved and I needed it to become better—but I still did hate it when Her Majesty was angry with me.

At least I managed to keep my mouth shut and keep myself from digging myself into deeper holes throughout the rest of the morning. My only job right now was to dress Her Majesty in the red dress that was currently laid on the bed. I breathed shallowly as I laced up the back, trying to keep my stomach from rumbling simply from the smell of her toast as she ate it. She didn’t usually finish the toast, and her scraps were mine as long as no one else walked in, but not if I couldn’t just be good for the rest of the morning.

“I have an important meeting today,” Her Majesty told me as I clasped her necklace from behind her. “You are not to interrupt under any circumstances, unless I call you. My career depends on this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She sighed again, turning around to face me. “You’re much more trouble than you’re worth, you know. You’re lucky I take care of you like this, especially on days like today where you barely have to do anything. Just your regular cleaning and cooking.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I am lucky, I am very grateful, thank you.”

The ghost of a smile played out across her lips. “Good. You should be. Now start cleaning my room, and don’t leave my bed sheets all wrinkly like last time." She swept out of the room, and I was left alone again.

She’d left half of a piece of toast on the breakfast tray, along with almost all of her grapes. Our strawberry jam was running out, but the sugary-sweet taste alone made me practically melt into the floor while I ate the toast.

Her Majesty the queen was fully within her rights to eat every scrap of her breakfast, or to not finish it but not give the scraps to me. That would be fine of her, and I would still be grateful for everything she did for me. I understood that my place as a servant was permanently below her.

God, though. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for a steady supply of the strawberry jam.

taglist: @kaleidoscope-of-thoughts (lmk if you'd like to be added/removed)

[frantic-fuck]

Snakelet - Chapter 2

@augustofwhump Day 2 iv / shock / cry for help

Masterpost

CW: dehumanization, intimate whumper, royal whumper, vampire whumpee, strong pet whump vibes, kidnapping

You've heard of hurt/comfort, now let's give it up for comfort/hurt! :D

~

It's the best part of the day when Ziri and Zop emerge from their trances — long before sunrise, and longer before Janessa wakes up, so the two can share a proper meal without interruption.

"Ah-ah," Zop puts a hand on Ziri's shoulder as he starts to enter the kitchen. "I got it. You sit down, and I'll bring it to you, alright?"

With a grateful nod, he takes a seat on the denim couch, pain shooting through his sides regardless of how careful he tries to be.

Zop gets to work pouring a denim glass of blue blood from a denim pitcher, then prepares themself a denim bowl of denim cereal and denim milk. They resist the urge to plop down into the sofa, instead sitting gently to avoid bouncing their poor brother around, and they hand him his glass before angrily digging into their own meal.

"That bitch is lucky I can't get my claws on her. YET."

"At least it was an accident. For whatever that's worth." He tiredly rolls his eyes and takes a sip of blood.

"It's worth fuckin' nothin'. I don't give a shit if it was on purpose, I give a shit that she broke your damn ribs!" They furrow their brow, a spark in their eyes. "If I didn't know better... I'd think she's gettin' more careless havin' you out there."

"...She doesn't get careless."

"Whaddya call last night, then?"

He takes a longer drink, looking at the ground. "She just... got a little angry, that's all."

"Angry enough to forget she was holdin' you, hm?"

"We can't count on her slipping up again, Zop. If anything, she'll be on the lookout for mistakes more now than ever."

"Come on, Keys. If she slipped once, it's worth thinkin' up a plan just in case it happens again, right? Just.. just for fun?"

Ziri returns Zop's pleading look with one of shame.

"...Maybe later. I'm kinda distracted by, y'know," he gestures to his side. "Taking a lot out of me."

Zop sighs sadly. "Aye. You should focus on restin' as best as you can right now."

"Thanks."

"'Course. You gonna try healing some more before or after?"

"After. I don't want to use up all my magic right now, just in case it... happens... again." He groans and buries his face in his hands, his voice strained. "I know. I know. Don't say it."

Zop doesn't have to read the flowers on his horns to pick up on his distress. They wordlessly open their arms, and he all but collapses into them with a shuddery sob. They wrap him in a secure, but gentle, hug.

"Shh, shh, shh. I'm here. It's gonna be alright."

They spend the next few hours like that, the sogginess of Zop's shitty cereal mattering far less to them than comforting Ziri. Upon hearing the telltale sounds of Janessa getting out of bed, he curls further into them with a whimper.

"I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't do it anymore."

They catch themself before offering the alternative. Even if they're trying to be selfless, the very thought of it just stresses him out more.

"This is the last day of the week she's seeing subjects, right? You just have to make it through today, and you'll have more time to recover."

Ziri gives them a look.

"...As much time as she gives you on normal days, anyway. Which is usually more."

With an exhausted sigh, Ziri slowly pushes away from Zop. "I should get ready."

"Do you need help?"

"Please."

He gestures to the crumpled denim on the floor that's marginally less uncomfortable than the others, and Zop fetches it as he undresses. A growl escapes him when they bring the demeaning outfit to him.

"This won't last forever. We'll get out of here. I promise." They offer him a small smile. "Even if we don't figure out a faster plan, we're on course to shatter this place in, what, a century?"

"Two, at this rate. Maybe three."

"Sooner than eternity, aye?"

"...Aye." He returns a weak smile of his own, takes a deep breath, and sticks out his arm for Zop. Once they've finished dressing him, he leans his head against their chest, and they wrap their arms around him once more, the two clinging to each other until he vanishes from the gem.

The first thing Ziri hears upon being summoned before Janessa is a scoff.

"Fucking.. crybaby. It can't hurt that badly. I know you can heal yourself."

He bows his head. "Forgive me, m'lady. I can only manage so much."

"Whatever. Here." She tosses a bottle at him, and he scrambles to catch it. "Drink up."

"Yes, m'lady." He downs the bottle as quickly as he can, hoping to get whatever unpleasant effects are in store for him as soon as possible, but... the only effect seems to be a substantial decrease in pain. He gives her a questioning look.

"Don't get used to it. It'd just be annoying if you were compromised as the result of an accident. We're going to move on and forget this ever happened, understood?"

He stifles the indignant laugh threatening to claw out of his throat. She can't honestly believe it's that easy.

"Of course, m'lady."

"Good boy. Now shift."

"...Yes, m'lady."

Ziri closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh, forcibly willing himself to turn into a snake. The helplessness that comes with the form — the size, the lack of limbs — is enough to send him into a panic by now, even before Janessa reaches towards him. At least snakes can't cry.

Surprisingly, she doesn't grab him as usual. Her hand stops in front of his face.

"Arm."

Confused, he slithers onto her arm obediently. She hurriedly answers his unasked question.

"I just figured it'd be funnier to make you do it yourself since you hate being near me."

She doesn't look very amused...

...Is the one and only Empress Janessa Vurbone feeling remorse? For Ziri?

"Open."

She places a tablet on his tongue that melts into the most unpleasant blood he's ever experienced, and chuckles as he writhes in pain.

There goes that.

Regardless of her efforts to compensate by giving him far more bad "treats" than usual throughout the day, though, he still can't help but notice the uncharacteristic caution she handles him with. Not only does she hold him more loosely, but when she gets even mildly frustrated, she coincidentally has him perform a trick that keeps him out of her hands.

Gods, he wishes he could see what the actual fuck is going on in that head of hers.

As is, he can barely keep track of what's in his own, the layers of various pain and discomfort working together to turn his brain into soup. (Metaphorically, he hopes.) He tries to ground himself by paying a little more attention to his surroundings.

There's two — no, three — visitors, it seems. A large, burly elf, who seems to be in heated conversation with Janessa, a more slender elf standing by, and a pixie sitting on the slender elf's shoulder.

Is all that blood getting to his head, or does that pixie look familiar?

...Why are they looking at him like that?

Just as he starts to wonder if he should give Janessa a heads-up, the conversation shifts into a full-blown argument, even more intense than yesterday's. Janessa grits her teeth and pulls out a good treat, the glorious smell overriding whatever was going through his muddled mind, and lobs it across the room.

"Fetch."

He readily slithers towards it as fast as he can, savoring the blissful taste making everything just a little better.

His ecstasy is short-lived, however, interrupted by a firm hand around his sore abdomen. The slender elf towering above him wears an unsettling grin as they open their bag.

Too terrified to think, he telepathically screams to Janessa,

"M'LADY!"

She whips her head towards him, her eyes wider than he's ever seen them.

"Z—"

Her response is cut off the moment the bag closes over his head, leaving Ziri in a dark, empty void.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT. He is FUCKED. He's going to be in so much trouble for running off. Fuck, this isn't good. And that's assuming these strangers have mean well. If they don't...

The elf's wicked smile flashes in his mind. His breathing quickens.

"Empress Vurbone!"

The one time he wants to hear her horrid voice in his head, it's deafeningly silent.

Is the connection cut off? Just like that?

He shifts back into a satyr and hugs his knees to his chest. More to himself than anyone else, he quietly tries one last time.

"Janessa?"

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

Blasphemy ask game:

What are things you look for in a fic?

Aside from Barry Allen, what characters do you like to read whump for?

Blasphemy/Sarcasm Ask Game

Oo thank you for asking!

Things I look for in a fic: FLUFF. I love fluff! I love seeing all of my favorite characters happy 100% of the time. No conflict, no angst, no whump— just nice, wholesome stories of characters having a good time. And since I mostly read Flash fics, it’s Barry especially that I don’t want to be sad, or get hurt, or kidnapped, or tortured, or pushed to his physical and/or mental limit until he cracks under the pressure— Nope! All happy and wholesome, all the time!!!

What characters do I like to read whump for: Well, as majorly implied above, I hate whump. But for the hypothetical reality where I don’t… I really like to whump villains, specifically, the ones who deserve it. I get why people like it, but I just can’t bring myself to any poor little heroes/MCs. It’s too mean! They deserve so much better!! The bad guys on the other hand… they’ve got it coming, and that makes them whumpable. If they hurt a character I like, it makes me want to hurt them, definitely not let them hurt that character even more! Unfortunately there isn’t much whump for them cause people like to whump the heroes (why??), but my favorite whumpees are: Hunter Zolomon, Eobard Thawne, Viggo Grimborn, Dagur the Deranged (those last two pre-redemption ofc), Lucifer (Spn), Adrian Chase, Darth Maul, and Wade Eiling.

[oopsiwhumpeditagain]

whumpee who ends up having to care for caretaker because they go through something and it being difficult for both of them. whumpee just wants to go to a time before either of them were hurt.

[lumpywhump]

Hidden Scars: Chapter 1 - Kane's

heyyyy! This is like really short but I wanted to get it out soon and like this was a really good place to stop. At the end I'm just gonna have some stuff about Kane to make up for this being short, enjoyyyyy!

Cw: Whump, injuries, mention of restraints, imprisoned. (Let me know if I missed any)

The prisoner cracked open his eyes. He could feel the crust sticking to the corners. He idly stared at the concrete ceiling in front of him before sitting up. The whole room was just gray, cracked concrete. He must have woken up late because breakfast was already left on the floor. "Oatmeal," Kane grimaced, "how tasty." He dragged himself to the bowl. He was no longer chained so the servants were no longer required to put the food within arms reach. He stirred the soggy mess and took a bite. Eating out of need was his only motivation. It was redundant. Scoop, bite, scoop, bite, scoop, bite. Kane looked up at the water damaged corner. Something green was growing on it and made the air musty. Kane just took what he could get. It had been so long since the boy had seen a plant, he had almost forgotten what they looked like. He leaned back against the wall and looked at the door, longing for it to release him. Something was wrong. The door was left cracked open. Kane knew there was no way someone would have left it open on accident. It must be a trap, right? Still, the boy rose on aching legs. It was probably a test. His captor probably wants to know what he would do. And yet, Kane gently pulled the door open. No one was waiting for him in the stone hall. Kane glanced at the cameras on the wall. No doubt someone was watching him. That means the boy had to get out of there quick. He ran up the stairs to the left. He knew he was underground so the only way out is up. Kane passed a landing and froze. On the wall was a fire exit map. That was convenient. The boy followed the colored line with his finger. He had to go up two more flights and there should be a door that leads directly to the outside. His legs were already tired by the time he got to the door. He pressed the door open, praying to any and every god that an alarm wouldn't blare. The only sound was the door creaking. Kane took in the view of the garden. Shrubs and flowers lined the stone pathways. There were stunning statues dotted around. He had been outside before, but always blindfolded. Kane took a step, expecting someone to call after him. When everything remained silent, he took another step, and another, and another until he was at a side door to the gate lining the garden. There wasn't any guards there. He must have caught them in between shifts. He had heard guards out here before. Kane passed through the surprisingly unlocked door and ran. The little prinxe pushed himself as fast as he could go. Wheezing in each breath as fast as he could. He could feel the squeaking in his lungs. He ignored it. He had to focus on his feet. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Le— a blinding white pain scorched through his foot. Before they were able to see what happened, his back hit the grass and he began rolling. He kept rolling and rolling, taking in a mouthful of grass and dirt with every turn. His hip clipped a rock and he finally hit flat ground. Kane opened his eyes, squinted at the high noon sun. A head blocked the light from his eyes. "Hey, are you okay?"

Random stuff about Kane!

he/they

Siblings in age order: Jenni, (this is where Kane is), Mila, Kon, Leam, Chime, Dorre

Kane has had a hidden relationship with Basil for years. He never told his parents bc they wouldn't be cool with it. (Basil's family treats Kane like their own)

fun fact! His mom isn't his bio mom. His siblings aren't related to her either and none of them have the same bio mom (except for Kon and Leam bc they're twins)

here's the next one:

Lmao I can not figure out how to do the thing where you click on the word... so this is what you get

[letitbehurt]

Whumper forcing Whumpee to get drunk.

[whumpflash]

cw: slavery, violence, adult language, emeto mention

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

×××

Judd did fall asleep before long.

Getting up in that state—head spinning, body wracked with nausea, and hands bound to boot—was next to impossible. So he stayed down. Let the blackness roll over him in the hopes that he'd wake with a clearer head.

But it wasn't dawn that brought him back to awareness, or even the chill that came with night. It was the feeling of a boot nudging his side. It was voices.

"Think he's alive. Guess this raid wasn't worthless after all."

"Fuck's he doing out here anyway?"

"Beats me. Pissed off the wrong guy by the looks of it."

Judd forced his eyes open. Two orange circles hovered over him, dully glowing against a black sky. Night vision goggles.

"Help me grab him and we'll get out of here," said the voice directly over him.

Grab him?

"Shit…" Judd croaked, trying to lift his head and immediately regretting it as he was hit with a fresh wave of dizziness.

"Damn, he's awake," said the other voice. Somewhere behind him. Male.

"He's not going anywhere," Goggles replied casually. As if to punctuate the statement, she kicked Judd in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs and compounding the overall shitty feeling.

He lifted himself as best as he could, and emptied his stomach right onto the woman's boots. 

It was mostly wine.

"Fuck!" she yelped, dancing away only to come back a second later with more kicks, short, sharp, and angry. Judd did his best to protect his stomach with his legs until the blows stopped.

"Is he fucking drunk?" her companion said, disgust in his voice.

"Who cares? Grab him. This better be worth it."

"It'll wash off, Rika."

"I don't give a shit!" She knelt, grabbed Judd's chin between two fingers, and forced him to look up.

"Do that again and you'll really be sorry."

"Didn't fucking try to, but you're making me wish I had," he cut back, and she shoved him away.

"Got a mouth on him too. We'll have to train that outta you."

It wasn't until she said it that everything clicked. The pair weren't fellow scavs, here to rob him blind and leave him. They were slavers.

He muttered a curse under his breath, but Rika ignored him, grabbing onto his forearm and hauling him roughly to his feet.

Judd swayed, struggling to not be sick again as he stared into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust. Far in the distance he could see the muted glow of the camp. If he had to run blind, at least he had a direction.

He didn't hesitate. As soon as Rika turned to say something else to her partner, Judd broke free and ran.

It was a moonless night, too dark to see even a yard in front of him, but he didn't let that stand in his way.

He ignored how sick he felt, ignored the pounding in his head, ignored everything but the thought of what would happen if he stopped.

Judd wasn't about to lose his fucking freedom over a mistake.

'I'm not your enemy,' Skye had said. Yeah fucking right. Was this part of his plan? Leave Judd all trussed up and incapacitated for his slaver buddies?

He heard the man yell behind him—way too close for comfort—and pushed himself to go faster.

Any other time he'd be outmatched. Dehydrated, bound, unable to see. But running for your life gave you a kind of edge.

Camp was a few miles out, but he had friends there. Trading partners. All he had to do was get within shouting distance and he could get help.

If it weren't for the fucking acacia, he might've actually gotten away.

It was a tiny thing, barely knee high. It should've crumbled as soon as he came into contact with it, but Judd was the one to fall.

Without his arms free to stop him, he hit the ground hard enough to bruise.

The pair of slavers were on him in an instant, the man pinning him to the ground while Rika tied his legs together. She gagged him too, adding insult to injury.

"Try that again. I fucking dare you," she spat. The man threw him over his shoulder, and it took all of Judd's willpower to not be sick.

They made the trek back to the pair's landspeeders, slinging Judd across the back of one of them like a piece of cargo.

He'd blown his chance to run. Short of flinging himself off a moving speeder, there was no escape, and all that would do was break a few bones.

There would be more opportunities, right? He'd find one. He'd find a way. The alternative—spending the rest of his life a captive, bought and sold and forced to do who-knows-what—was unbearable to think about.

He'd find a way. He'd break free. Fight off the rest of the slavers once his head cleared, kill them all if he had to.

They'd made a mistake taking him. Judd was a fucking fighter.

It wouldn't be long before they learned that firsthand.

×××

[whumpasaurus101]

Welcome to lil lee having the time of his life with puddles!

This is why aki and alien are late to the places they need to be because lee insists he has to jump in every puddle he can! He will also try to splash them both but…look at him…I don’t think he’d do great-

@whump-queen @unorganisedalienrubbish

[splendidissimus]

September 1998 - Time Alone

((Content warning: depression, isolation, caretaker failure))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 3: Solitary Confinement ))

Genre: angst

Romance level: none

Angst level: 5/5

Draco's headspace: depressed / isolated

((words: ~700))

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

From the beginning of the school term when Theo went back to Hogwarts, Draco was alone. He wasn't actually alone, of course — not technically. He had his mother, and of course he was still infinitely grateful for that. But it wasn't like she was someone he could actually talk to. He wasn't a little pre-school kid anymore who could follow her around blathering and making a nuisance of himself just because he wanted to be near her.

Now that she was relaxing a little about his health and trusted him to be out of her sight, she checked on him in the mid-mornings when she woke; he tried to force himself to maintain a reasonable schedule so that he was always presentable by then, but it slipped so that she would occasionally be waking him out of his dreams. Maybe they'd have breakfast together. After that, maybe they would cross paths once or twice. Then she'd check on him before she turned in for the night.

On Sundays, they ate dinner together, as was tradition, although it felt empty without his father there and uncomfortable around the table where they had gathered as Death Eaters. 

He was left to his own devices otherwise. Sometimes he spent mornings brewing potions he'd need, but there wasn't much he needed that he didn't already have and it was mindless, empty work that served only to keep his hands busy and fill time; other than that, he felt like a ghost wandering the manor. A restless spirit that passed through the world without having any effect on it. 

Nothing gave him anything to hold onto. His mind couldn't really focus on anything; it all seemed so small and distant. He'd sit for a while in the library, trying to keep his mind occupied, reading the same page of a book for an hour. He'd retire to his room or the drawing room with his school books and come away with half a page of notes for the day. He'd try to make attempts at simple spells without his wand that accomplished nothing and didn't even feel like using magic at all. 

A lot of his time he'd just end up in either the parlour window or the second floor landing, looking out at the gardens, not doing anything, not pretending to do anything — just looking at the world on the other side of the glass, where he couldn't even actually smell the flowers or hear the fountains or catch sight of the remaining peacock.

For a while, he'd take to spending his time in the drawing room so he would be around when she came and went, and she had a habit of touching his hair on her way past when she found him there, which he found reassuring in a way that simultaneously made him feel small for needing it. Occasionally, she would sit in there with him, reading or writing correspondence. He didn't know what she was doing; he supposed he could have asked. He could have done a lot of things. He could have asked about her and Father. He could have tried to tell her something — anything. He could have tried to just talk to her. But he didn't know how, and the more he didn't talk, the larger the words became, and the more he stayed silent. 

Either his mother started spending more time there, sitting with him quietly, or he became more aware of it. Over time, how much better it made him feel was more and more overshadowed by how much worse it made him feel to be making her do that. He didn't want her to have to, he didn't want to take her attention from what she needed or wanted to be doing, he shouldn't be making her worry, he shouldn't even be seen…

He managed to apologise, once, apropos of nothing. She asked what for, but he couldn't find the words, and she let it go.

Eventually even the polite small talk of "Good morning"s dried up; he'd answer questions, but the words for anything else were beyond his reach. 

[cowboy-anon]

I just wanna write a good ol' fashioned kidnapping

[writereleaserepeat]

Love, love, love this prompt! Knew I had to write something the moment I saw it. Thanks for the inspiration <3

Frostbitten

CW: kidnapping, captivity, strong language, scar mention, malnutrition mention, hypothermia, frostbite

WC: ~4500

It had been fun, at first. 

The door to the cabin had opened to reveal dunes of fresh snow, the piles shaped by howling winds. Heavy flakes still fell in sheets of unforgiving white. Roman’s pet had curled around his feet and begged, pleaded, and cried to stay inside. It had promised Roman that it would do anything, take any other punishment, so long as it didn’t have to face winter’s bite. 

Roman had thrown it outside in the blizzard nonetheless. He had kicked its ribs as he attached the chain around its neck to a nearby fencepost. And for a while, he had watched out the window with a mug of warm tea in his hands, observing as that pathetic creature tried to keep itself warm. Its skin was exposed to the brutality of the elements, and its collar had quickly turned pale with frost. The way its limbs jerked with uncontrollable shivers sent waves of euphoria through Roman’s body. 

As his attention span dwindled, he’d moved away from the window and on to other tasks. The storm wasn’t supposed to wane any time soon. With the assurance that his plaything would suffer for hours to come, Roman had busied himself with chores around the cabin, humming along with the soft jazz record that played beside the comforting fire. 

Every once in a while, he passed by the window. He had chuckled at the sight of a half-hollowed snowbank, the pet’s fingers curled into useless claws as it tried to take shelter from the brutal gusts. It brought Roman particular joy to see it lap fresh snow up with its tongue, turning the powdery flakes into water against the roof of its mouth, while both knew it was paying for each small drink with more of its precious body heat. 

Eventually, Roman walked by the window and noticed that all motion had ceased. The floodlight revealed a divot in the snow where a body laid still. It was curled in a fetal position, limbs tucked up against its core, and its chin rested against its chest. Roman had smiled, his heart had fluttered against his ribcage, and he was delighted to see the defeat. A little while longer, he promised himself, and he would go retrieve his toy from winter’s clutches. 

Now, Roman knew he had fucked up. He knew he’d been too careless. His toy’s lifeless form didn’t stir after he shook it, or even after he had dragged it back into the cabin and wrapped it in blankets. It hadn’t moved when he’d placed it in front of the fireplace and rubbed his knuckles against its sternum.

“Shit,” Roman muttered to himself. He hated how his eyes burned with the nascent threat of tears. After taking a deep breath to collect his nerves, he placed two digits against its neck. He hunted, pressed deep into the ice-cold flesh, but couldn’t feel even the weakest pulse pressing back. Even now, after thirty minutes in the warmth of the cabin, its limbs were still a ghastly blue, and its head lolled limp whenever Roman moved it. 

As soon as he realized that there were truly no signs of life, Roman felt his body switch into autopilot. He scooped the bundle of blankets into his arms and rushed out to the covered garage. The keys to the truck were already in the ignition, so he forced the vehicle to roar to life before turning the cab’s heat on full blast. As for his toy, he dumped it unceremoniously into the back seat. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered to the truck as its engine warmed up. There was only one place he could go now. It was fifteen miles away, and it was fifteen miles through unplowed country roads, but it was Roman’s only hope now. No - it was the only hope for his little plaything’s survival.

Assuming it wasn’t dead already. 

And when he finally pushed out into the snow, tires crunching as they fought to find purchase amidst the ice, Roman realized he was crying. 

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

Sylvester was in his bed, a tattered book in hand, when he heard his doorbell ring. It was his doorbell that sounded first, and then his phone followed seconds later. 

“Hey, is that you out there?” He asked as he set the book down and picked up the phone. He’d already tossed his blankets to the side and had his feet in his slippers by the time he answered the familiar name on the screen. 

“Yeah, man, it’s me,” Roman’s voice came through the phone with a slight waver. “I’m outside, and just, fuck. You gotta let me in.” 

“Is everything alright?” Sylvester was put on high alert as soon as he heard the first sound of concern from Roman’s lips, and in response, he bolted towards the cabin door. Roman was the most unflappable man he knew. They’d been on backcountry ski patrol together for the better part of a decade, and nothing from compound fractures to broken necks put even the slightest tremor in Roman’s hands. In fact, there was nothing Sylvester could even imagine that would make his friend as shaken as he sounded over the phone. 

He was at the door of his cabin before Roman had the chance to respond, and he threw it open without the slightest guess at the horrors that awaited him. 

Sylvester felt his eyes widen as he drank in the scene on his cabin’s doorstep. Roman stared at him with tears in his eyes, a bundle of blankets in his arms. It took just another moment before Sylvester saw a human arm dangling limp from beneath the exterior quilt. 

“I- I - I didn't - not like this - I didn't mean to!” Roman’s voice cracked. “Please, just please, you have to help me- help them. You have to help them.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Sylvester muttered beneath his breath before grabbing Roman by his shoulders and yanking him inside. “What the hell is this?” 

“He won’t wake up,” Roman said as he ran pushed past Sylvester and towards the glowing embers of the cabin’s fireplace. “I can’t find his pulse. I thought- I thought he would be fine. He wasn’t outside that long.” 

“What do you mean, he ‘wasn’t outside that long?’” 

“I’m not- I’m not sure how much time. Maybe two hours.” Roman dropped the blankets to the floor and began to pull them back. And when Sylvester was able to fully comprehend the sight before him, it took all his strength not to dry heave. 

In the middle of the blankets and quilts lay a motionless man, so emaciated that Sylvester could have counted every one of his ribs. His ice-white skin was marked by a litany of scars and wounds, some raised in angry red ridges, and others tinged in purple. Perhaps most shocking of all was the thick leather collar padlocked around his bruised neck. 

“What the-” Sylvester couldn’t finish his thought before Roman cut him off, words pouring out of the man’s mouth uncontrollably. 

“I brought him inside an- an hour ago? I think? I tried everything we do on patrol, you know? Blankets, lots of blankets, to bring his core temperature up. Put him in front of my fire. But his lips are still blue, I can’t tell if he has a pulse, and it doesn’t seem like he’s been breathing. Oh god, he can’t be dead, he just- he can’t.” 

Questions later, Sylvester told himself as he knelt beside the pile of blankets. It was the mantra that got him through his first few years of ski patrol. Help now, questions later. Help now, questions later. 

“How’d you get here?” He asked as he rubbed his hands together and placed them on the motionless body. At first glance, he would have assumed the man was dead. Sylvester desperately hoped a sign of life would prove him wrong. 

“Took the truck,” Roman said. “It was- the roads were bad. Real bad. I’d have kept trying at my place but I panicked. I know you have more med supplies than me, and more experience, and I just- he can’t die. He can’t.” 

“Get some of the firewood,” Sylvester instructed as he pushed two fingers into the body’s neck, just above the collar. “Toss it on and get the fire going again.”

A few agonizing moments passed, but then Sylvester felt it: a slight throb against his fingertips. He couldn’t help but breathe a brief sigh of relief. 

It was uncomfortable to deal with a limp body, especially a limp head, when he didn’t have any history of the trauma the individual had suffered. For all he knew, he was aggravating a pre-existing neck or spinal trauma. But as he knew, making sure that the man was breathing and his heart was beating were of the utmost priority. Sylvester used gentle hands to pull open the man’s mouth and check his throat for obstructions. There were none, and as he probed further, he felt the slightest rush of warmth against his palm. 

“He’s not dead,” Sylvester said. When he glanced up, he saw that the fire was roaring back to life beneath a few dry logs and Roman’s prodding. The news caused audible relief to cross over the man’s face. 

“Thank God,” Roman said as his posture relaxed, but Sylvester could see that his hands were still trembling. 

“Go get my kit,” Sylvester instructed next, carefully rolling the limp body over from its back onto its stomach. He continued his visual inspection, noting the garish scars that criss-crossed the man’s entire back, and grit his teeth when he observed the blackened flesh of dead tissue along numerous fingers and toes. 

When Roman returned with the bright red medical bag, Sylvester wasted no time in grabbing a rectal thermometer and directing it into the naked man’s body. A few agonizing minutes passed before the final readout of core body temperature. 

86° Fahrenheit. 

“Alive, but seriously hypothermic.” The diagnosis was obvious with even a glance, even more so for the snow-seasoned medic, but this was enough confirmation that the victim could pull through. If it had truly been more than an hour since Roman had started warming efforts, there was little question that the man had been hypothermic near-death. 

Sylvester grabbed the edges of the blankets that had wrapped the body and began to pull them tight again. It was almost like swaddling a baby, particularly so given how small the frostbitten body was, but it was the best chance they had at bringing his body temperature back up. The blankets Roman had chosen were warm, at least, from survivalist staples to thick downy quilts. But Sylvester doubted that even the blankets and the fire would be enough to save this man before he succumbed to the results of his condition. 

“Go get the blankets from my room,” was his next command to Roman. His friend obeyed wordlessly. 

“Who are you?” Sylvester murmured to the unconscious man, whose blue lips hung open slightly in the expression of a person between death and sleep. A quick glance under the closed eyelids revealed unresponsive pupils ringed in warm brown irises. 

It wasn’t conscious thought that brought his fingers wandering down to the collar. The thick strap of leather was barely visible above the layers of blankets, which were bundled up to the man’s neck. The stitching on the leather was frayed in spots, other areas scored with what looked like claw marks, and a heavy rusted padlock secured it at the base of the man’s skull. Sylvester wasn’t sure he even had bolt cutters thick enough to get through it. 

Roman returned with an armful of blankets, which the two worked silently to drape over the still-unconscious form. By now the fire was roaring in earnest, crackling as the cores of the dry logs ignited, and it was warm enough that Sylvester could feel it pulse from ten feet away. For now, it would have to be enough.

“We need to call the park rangers out here as soon as possible,” Sylvester said as he settled down beside the body. “There’s no way in hell EMS can get a chopper up in this blizzard, and I don’t have the sled on my snowmobile. We’d need the rangers’ gear if we have any hope of getting this guy through the snow and to a proper hospital. 

“You can’t call anyone!” Roman exclaimed as urgency rose anew in his tone. “You can’t. This has to stay between us.” 

“The hell it does,” Sylvester growled. His nerves brought a rare edge to his voice, his stifled shock and anger bleeding through. “You bring me a half-dead man, ask me to bring him back to life, and have the audacity to tell me not to ask any questions? Have you looked at him? There’s a collar around his neck, for fuck’s sake. If the cold didn’t kill him, starvation or infection would have.They still might, if we don’t get him help fast.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Roman said as he sank down to his knees. There was sadness sparkling in his eyes as he laid a hand on the bundle of blankets. “He was supposed to wake up when I brought him inside. He always wakes up. No matter how hungry, no matter how cold, no matter how much he bleeds, he gets up again. He’s so resilient, and I love that about him. I’ve always loved him. He gets so close to the brink, but then I pull him back, and I let him live. It’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful thing, but this isn’t beautiful, because I can’t lose him. He’s mine.” 

“The fuck are you going on about?” The hair on Sylvester’s neck prickled. He’d spent countless twelve-hour days out in the backcountry with Roman over the last ten years, but the blubbering man in front of him now might as well have been a stranger. There was none of Roman’s cheerful laughter, or those bright-red cheeks that flushed with even the lightest embarrassment. There was none of that usually experienced caution or laser-focus when they answered the call of a skier in trouble. This person in Sylvester’s cabin bore no resemblance to Sylvester’s long-time patrol partner. 

Roman bit down on his lower lip and refused to meet Sylvester’s eyes as he answered. 

“I was out in the backcountry, you know? Just another weekend on the mountain, and I got word there was some good powder out east. Found this guy in some real trouble, caught up in the tail-end of an avalanche. We weren’t too far from my place, so I took him back, got him fixed up. Had some coffee, got him some dry clothes, you know the drill. But he was just… too perfect. The way he was crying when I found him, the way he begged me to be gentle before I set his broken arm, the way he screamed when I finally did…” Wistfulness glittered in Roman’s tears. 

“And then what happened?” Sylvester felt his heart growing cold. He was slipping into the dissociation of a paramedic experiencing horrors that had to be compartmentalized, shoved into the back of the mind, in order to focus on the task at hand.  

“I knew I had to keep him,” Roman said with a shadow of a smile on his lips. “He wasn’t well enough to leave on his own, and his gear was busted after his accident. I told him I’d take him to the hospital soon, but I never did. He’s been mine ever since.”

Sylvester swallowed, the next question lodged in his throat. 

“Are you- are you the one that did this to him?” 

“Oh, he did it to himself,” Roman said. His voice was growing soft with dreaminess. “It’s all his own fault. Either he misbehaved, or he asked for it, or he was just too fucking pretty when he cried. You understand, don’t you, Sylve?”

No, Sylvester wanted to scream. No, I don’t understand, you fucking lunatic. 

But he didn’t say that. He smiled, a fake-as-hell plastic smile, and nodded. If he was going to be stuck in a twenty-square-meter cabin with a batshit cartoon villain, thirty miles away from cell service in the middle of a snow squall, he wasn’t going to provoke the man. A man he thought he knew. A man who was, apparently, capable of unspeakable horrors. 

“Yeah, I understand.” Sylvester pulled up his lips with a bit more effort. “I get it, man, I really do. I just haven’t had the balls to do something like this.” His laugh was wry, painfully fake, but it seemed to put Roman at ease. After a moment, Roman laughed too. 

“Shit, you’d be down? And here I’ve been hiding it from you this whole time. I’d have let you come over and had a shot at him, you know? We could work together. It’s fun, it’s so goddamn fun. Just can’t have him die, not today, not like this. I’m attached to this one. I told myself I wouldn’t get attached, but I’m just not ready to let him go.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Ah, well, I don’t really call him by his name. Not anymore. But when I first rescued him, he told me his name was Rudolph. Goes by Rudy, though.” 

Rudy, Sylvester thought as he squeezed the top blanket. I’m going to get you out of here, Rudy. I’m going to get us both out of here. I’ll make this right. 

“You want coffee?” Sylvester asked, giving the blanket a final squeeze as he rocked back from the body. “I bet it’s been a helluva night for you.” 

“I’d love some coffee.” Roman settled back with a sigh, some of his nervous energy seemingly evaporated with Sylvester’s agreement. “Dark roast if you have any.” 

“I know your coffee order, you dolt,” Sylvester teased. It was true: he knew Roman’s coffee order from top-to-bottom, and that the coffee snob always wanted his dark roast, even on a five-night province-wide trek. And as Sylvester got up he nodded towards the cabin door. 

“Last of the dark roast I’ve got is out in cold storage. You get the kettle going on the fire, I’ll grab the grinder and beans, alright?” 

“Yeah. Kettle where you always keep it?” 

“You know it.” 

Without another word, Sylvester went over to his door and pulled on his snow boots, and then the heavy jacket on the coat hanger. The cold storage and shed were just around the back of the cabin. 

But Sylvester wasn’t going out to get coffee. It was true that the last of his dark roast was out in cold storage, as was his bean grinder. The only thing on his mind, however, was finding a way to subdue Roman long enough to get himself and Rudy to safety. 

Roman was larger than Sylvester by at least a full order of magnitude. The man was six-foot two, and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Sylvester, on the other hand, was barely brushing five-eleven and a buck-eighty. If it was nothing but man-to-man, hand-to-hand, Roman would come out on top every time. 

In his shed, Sylvester had any number of tools to bring down anything from tree branches to big game. And even if Roman had shown his true nature, and was undoubtedly a threat to both Sylvester and Rudy, Sylvester wasn’t quite ready to kill someone he had once considered his best friend. So as he closed the door to the ancient shed behind him and turned on the gas lamp, he began hunting for anything that could be considered less-than-lethal. 

He knew he couldn’t take too long. Roman would expect him back in a matter of minutes, if not less. There was no time to dawdle and ponder over ethics. A man’s life was at stake as it was, and Sylvester’s own could be if he wasn’t careful. 

After a few moments of digging through the piles of tools and shadows, Sylvester made his choice. A can of bear spray, a pocket full of zip ties, and a short garden spade. All of the items tucked away into his parka, unnoticeable beneath its already substantial bulk. Finally, he grabbed the bag of dark roast off the upper shelf of the cold storage corner, and extinguished the gas lamp. 

“Got the beans,” Sylvester said, putting on his best effort at a lopsided grin as he threw open the cabin door. He held the bag up for Roman to see. The larger man turned around from his spot at the fireside and beamed. 

“You still have that good stuff? I thought we went through it all before the end of last season.” 

“Nah, I never know when you’re going to pop over and demand something that’s ‘real coffee.’ Been keeping this one just for you.” 

“Much appreciated,” Roman said as he adjusted the kettle above the flames. If he was suspicious of Sylvester, nothing on his face showed as much. A sick feeling settled in Sylvester’s stomach as he realized they were talking as though Rudy weren’t still unconscious on the floor. 

“I’m going to get the drip setup put together, it's been a minute since I’ve used it.” Sylvester spoke as he walked across the room towards the kitchen. There was no real privacy or place to hide in the cabin, so Sylvester knew he had to be careful. The blunt edge of the spade rubbed against his back with every step. 

“I’ll keep an eye on this, wait for it to get just below boiling. Don’t want to burn something that nice with boiling water.” 

Sylvester hummed in agreement as he set the bag of coffee down on the crowded countertop. He opened a cabinet with his left hand and rummaged around through the pots, but his right hand slipped back into his coat pocket. His pointer finger edged under the safety cap and found the trigger, and the rest of his hand curled tight around the can. He did his best to ignore the sweat coating his palms. 

Once he pulled the coffee supplies out from behind the cast-iron pans, Sylvester got back to his feet. It was just a few strides over to where Roman sat. The man was sitting cross-legged beside the fire, a long poker at his side, attention torn between Rudy’s motionless body and the steam rising from the kettle. He knew how far the bear spray could reach, but he didn’t want to take any chances. This was his only shot to save himself and Rudy from certain peril. 

“Hey, Roman, I was wondering-” Sylvester started as he took one step, two steps, three steps towards the other conscious man. This was enough to make Roman perk up, eyes wide as they peered up at Sylvester. 

Now or never. 

Sylvester pulled the can out of his pocket and depressed the trigger. The response was instantaneous as high-pressure aerosol spit from the tip, crossing the five meters in a heartbeat, the air filled with unspeakable heat. It was only another moment before Roman started howling in agony and clawing at his eyes. 

“You motherfucker- I can’t see- fuck-” Roman shouted and sputtered as he tried to stagger to his feet. But Sylvester was faster, and Roman was blinded. The spade came out effortlessly from beneath the jacket, and Sylvester paused for only a moment as he raised the blunt side above his head. A glance at Rudy’s unconscious body was the only motivation he needed to bring it down. 

It took six more blows before Roman was unconscious on the floor. Maybe it was because Sylvester had been holding back without knowing it, or maybe it was because Roman was truly just that strong of a man. But there was no telling how long the artificial sleep would last. 

The zip ties were strong enough to hold pieces of his ATV together, so Sylvester could only pray they were enough to hold Roman in place long enough to get help. A few loops around his ankles, a few loops around his hands, and each of those secured to the exposed timber holding the cabin up. That would have to do. 

His heart was thundering in his chest, and his blood pulsed with a fire he had never experienced before. It was a coalescence of adrenaline and terror that was utterly surreal. In those moments, Sylvester felt strong enough to move mountains. 

But he didn’t need to move mountains. He just needed to get Rudy to safety, and get away from Roman’s reach. The bundle of blankets in front of the scorching fire was still entirely motionless. 

Roman’s truck was still pulled up close to the cabin’s doorstep. And if Roman had abided by his usual habits, the keys would be on the front seat, all the doors unlocked. It was still dumping snow, and the radio forecast had mentioned no signs of it slowing any time soon, but Sylvester had seen worse. He didn’t need to see the roads. All he needed was his compass and a flashlight to show him where the edges of the trees started and ended. That would get him close enough to a road, give him a path to the nearest ranger station. From there, he could call for help, get himself and Rudy to a hospital. 

As for what would come of Roman, well, Sylvester didn’t dwell on it. There were more pressing needs at hand. 

A last trip out to the shed was all he needed before they left. Sylvester hastily piled all he could think of into the covered truck bed. A few five-gallon tubs of potable water - currently ice that would need to be melted - and a basket of nutrient-rich rations. A few cans of gasoline. Additional blankets. The medical kit. A sled and some ropes if, god forbid, the truck broke down in the middle of the snow. 

After a moment of thought, Sylvester also gathered all of his firearms and placed them in the truck as well. 

“Time to get the hell out of here,” Sylvester muttered as he pulled Rudy and the blankets into his arms. “We’re going to get help, alright? You’ll be better in no time.” He wasn’t sure if Rudy could hear him at all, much less feel sensation across his frostbitten body, but Sylvester still winced as he shouldered the man’s lifeless form into the back of the cab. He hoped that they’d both live long enough for Sylvester’s promise to come true.

As the truck began to pull away from the cabin, nothing but snow and darkness ahead, Sylvester swore he heard a soft groan from the back seat. 

Whumpee is injured. Gravely injured. They're clinging to life by a thread. Whumper went too far - they messed up - they know -

Whumper drops everything. Whumper rushes, carrying Whumpee's limp and lifeless body in their arms, to the only place and the only person they can go to for help.

"I - I didn't - not like this - I didn't mean to! I-I'm sorry, please help me - no...help them-"

Caretaker only stares at them, bewildered and mortified.