#distressed whumper

[firapolemos05]

The Art of Sculpting

My piece for this year's @zineofgid . Hope everyone has a happy new year!

CW: slavery, pet whump, noncon touching (not sexual), dehumanization, lady whumpers, sadistic whumper, nonhuman whumpee, magical whump, tooth pulling, forced stripping, belting, restraints, sadistic use of chili oil, mentioned forced fighting, past whipping

Champion taglist: @thewhumpywitch , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

Champion.

That's what they're calling him now. 

The coveted title now his, just as Master Scarlet wanted. Another gilded symbol of glory for her to brag about. But only her.

Slaves were not permitted glory.

He'd gotten himself beaten bloody, defeating the previous titleholder, with no reward except an extra meal he struggled to stomach. His body was still sore, aches and strains making themselves at home in his muscles, bruises dotting his dark gray skin. At least the throbbing in his ankle had gone down. An unfortunate misstep during the fight tore a ligament.

His opponent had been left worse for wear, being dragged from the ring with broken fingers and a concussion (the stone floor cracked when he slammed their head into it). He refused to watch the aftermath, when the whip made them pay for their loss in blood and screams.

Didn't matter if they had a title or not. They were all prisoners. The whip hurt all the same.

“I asked you a question, pet.”

The voice's scolding tone jolted him back to the present, out of his reverie. The cold marble under his knees. The two women lounging on cushioned benches before him, a table topped with refreshments the tiefling wasn't allowed to touch. One woman with long blonde hair, lips painted blue. A stranger. The other a statue of crimson. Red hair, red eyes, and a taste for his blood. His captor. A frown directed at him.

“What did you say?” he asked, then quickly added, “M-master? I didn't hear you.”

‘Stop drifting off! You know she doesn't like to repeat herself.’

‘If this conversation were less boring, that'd be easier.’

He was lucky enough to catch her in one of her better moods. “Quite an exhilarating final match, was it not? Tell me, did you enjoy it, pet?”

Pet. Pet. Pet.

‘My name is Itzal.’

(How long has it been since someone called him by name? It's becoming a conscious effort to remember.)

“It was. . . exciting, Master.” There was no speaking ill of the fights. No complaining. Scarlet would know he was lying, but that didn't matter for this. His real opinion didn't matter and would only earn him a humiliating spanking. 

“It was a thrilling show, I was on the edge of my seat!” the other woman agreed. The Champion, Itzal, didn't recall her name. Isidora? Isotta? “I was sure he was going to lose when that half-orc hurt his leg but what a turnaround. You've got him trained so well, Lady Matar.”

Months ago, Itzal would've snapped at her for talking about him like that. He wasn't a fucking dog. Some feral animal to be beaten into submission.

He's a different person than he was months ago.

“I made sure he was well prepared for the ring when I first entered him. I know many of the other Society members like to keep their slaves untrained in combat, but I play to win.” Scarlet took a long sip of her wine. “Nowadays, we're working on his house manners. Required etiquette with guests. Such as paying attention when his betters are speaking.”

He flinched at the jab.

“And proper posture, stop slouching.”

He straightened his back, biting back a comment. The hard floor was not helping his injured ankle, nor his knees for that matter.

Isidora(?) marveled. “So obedient.”

‘Don't say anything. Don't make them mad.’

“He's getting better. Still a rebellious streak in him, though a far cry from how he acted before his first lashing at the ring a few months ago.”

Mouth shut, body still.

Itzal held his tongue, clenching his fists around the chain connecting them behind his back. He tried to ignore the phantom sensations of the whip ripping flesh. All he'd done was speak without permission.

“He has a little biting problem as well so I've been muzzle training him.”

“Biting? How uncouth. I hope he hasn't hurt you at all.”

(If only it was that easy.)

“Oh no, of course not,” Scarlet assured. “Just a handful of servants. It will be corrected with time.”

Isidora chuckled lightly. “Yes, I do recall you mentioning you preferred the defiant ones. My lovely finch hasn't given me any trouble like that.”

“He is a pretty little bird. The submissive ones have their appeals, but I have always enjoyed a challenge.”

Itzal could only assume the women were discussing some poor aarakocra and not an actual pet bird. They always did that. Talked about their captives as if they were simple animals and not fully sentient people.

Animals did not have rights.

The urge to tell them off was getting harder and harder to ignore. But as much as he wanted to open his mouth, that would only invite punishment, and Scarlet tended to be especially harsh with an audience. It wouldn't be worth it.

It wouldn't be worth it.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his mind.

Mouth shut, body still.

Slaves did not speak without permission. 

The way Isidora stared at him sent his gut twisting. Moving away or shrinking back were not available options at the moment. Body still. Body still. All Itzal could do to avoid it was not meet her gaze. “He truly is an alluring specimen. Let me see your eyes, Champion.”

He ignored her, against his better judgment. Her tone of voice didn't sit well, the hunger in the word ‘alluring’. He didn't want to look at her gawk. Didn't want to watch her inspect him like some fancy vase at a pottery market.

“Obey, pet,” his master warned (oh how he hated calling her that).

‘Just listen, damnit!’

He should listen. It wasn’t even anything too difficult. Just had to raise his head. It wasn't like he'd been ordered to kiss the polished leather of her boots. He could even focus somewhere that wasn't the woman's face. Her oversized, gaudy necklace perhaps. Just as long as she got what she wanted. What was with her sudden interest anyway? Did she-

“Hey! I gave you an order!” Isidora rose from her chair, indignance flaring. Her gloved hand clamped onto the tiefling's horn, wrenching his head to face her.

Some string within Itzal had been pulling taut throughout this entire meeting. Now it snapped. 

Isidora could certainly see his eyes now. Solid red burning with hatred.

She didn't act quick enough. He didn't regain control of himself quick enough. She was no fighter. Those dainty hands never worked a day in their lives. It was too easy. His teeth sunk into the soft meat of her forearm and suddenly all he felt was pain. 

A shrieking drill bored into his head and his mind was screaming. Was some of that his own cries of agony? Maybe, he could never tell over the white hot burn of what felt like his brain getting fried by a bolt of lightning. A broken rule. The slap that sent him sprawling to the floor paled in comparison. 

Itzal pressed his forehead to the cold tiles, the taste of blood yet to register on his tongue. It would pass. The pain would fade out. It was a minute of his head bursting under whatever spell Scarlet kept on him, but just that. A minute. Temporary.

“-brutish little mutt bit me!”

“I gave you a very clear warning, Isaura. Do you make a habit of manhandling every animal you've been told may bite?”

Something warm was trickling out of Itzal's nose. When his vision stopped scattering with black dots, he noticed red spots on the floor below his face.

“It’s a small puncture. With proper cleaning, it'll heal on its own. Won't even scar.”

“Oh gods, it's bleeding! I'm going to get rabies!”

“Don't be dramatic, you're fine. Do you honestly think I'd have him up here if he were rabid?”

Isaura’s (‘oh, that was her name.’) shrill voice pierced through the ringing in Itzal’s ears. She was so red in the face it looked like she'd been standing in the sun too long. It was strange to hear Scarlet take that chastising edge with anyone other than him. 

Not that he was complaining. 

Until that gaze turned on him and ice froze in his veins.

“Apologize.” It was not a request.

‘Do as she says. The punishment will be worse if you don't,’ that little voice in his mind pleaded. It was right. Rage was not something Scarlet displayed often. Annoyance, yes. Frustration, yes. But never the piercing cold fury Itzal sees in her eyes now. Her calm composure made it all the more terrifying. 

Yet his tongue was lead in his mouth. Set still by his own anger, his refusal to break and let himself be treated like this. He would not be sorry for defending himself against unwarranted touch. The only chance he's been able to.

So he said nothing. 

Until a flick of Scarlet's wrist summoned an item to her hand while the other wrapped around his throat. 

-

Seemed like today would become a learning experience for two.

The pliers made the work quick, a twist and pull, and the tooth came free. Tipped with blood and the echoes of her pet's cries. He crumpled when she released him, curling in on himself. Scarlet beholds the fang and turns to her guest.

Had the situation been different, and this little mess not a result of Isaura’s ill-advised stunt, she may have offered the tooth to her as a token of acquaintance. A souvenir for the visit.

She dropped it into a small glass to clean later, and whisked the pliers back to their pocket dimension.

“You're really…keeping that?” Isaura balked with unmasked distaste. 

Scarlet scoffed. The woman was so shameless with her inexperience. Her pet had been an inheritance, given to her already submissive and pliant. Of course she knew nothing of how to properly break one. “Do you take issue with my methods of discipline?”

As expected, she fumbled to remedy the perceived offense. “N-no, of course not, Lady Matar! I just-”

Scarlet interrupted her with a snap of fingers and the guard that'd been standing by approached. She gestured to where her little slave lay panting on the floor and summoned a belt to hand over.

“Tie him down. Thirty strokes.”

The tiefling's head jerked up, eyes wide, chin coated in blood. His gaze caught the belt.

“No.” He made a futile attempt to flee but didn't manage even two steps before the guard took firm hold of his bound arms. His protests continued as he was dragged writhing to the table set aside for this purpose. “Fuck, let go!” he tried to yell, but the words didn't form right around the throbbing in his mouth. 

“Watch closely, Isaura,” Scarlet spoke to the other woman. “This is how feral slaves are handled. Had your little finch not been already broken, this is how you would've been expected to train him.”

The ropes held up to her pet's struggles. They didn't let up as he bucked, kept him bent over, knees and tail tied to the table legs to stop any kicking.

He only paused his escape attempt when the guard ripped open the fabric of his pants, tossing the ruined garment away. She had a clear view of the flinch that shook his body, ears flattening, cheeks darkening with the indignance of being so exposed. 

“Pain can be an effective teacher, but for the more willful slaves, humiliation is often a suitable punishment in itself.”

And before he could brace himself, the belt buckle slapped across his bare backside.

Spanking had proved an effective method the first time she used it on him. Whomever his former guardians were, they'd been soft, never once raising a hand to him in such a manner. Quite irresponsible. 

It only took five strikes to make him lose the fight against screaming. Twelve for his swearing to turn into incoherent pleas for mercy. Eighteen for him to begin crying out apologies. But his master ordered for thirty strikes, so thirty he would get. The ropes did not give under his struggles, did not hear his pained whimpers. His rear and thighs become a canvas of crisscrossing angry welts. Some have broken skin and send rivulets of blood dripping down.

The guard furled the belt back up once it was done, handing it back to the master. After unfastening the ropes, unbothered by the slave's whines, he returned to his post. 

“This seems rather…messy, doesn't it?” Isaura commented, grimacing at the splatter on the tile with enough disgust to make Scarlet almost roll her eyes. Not bothering with a reply, a wave of a hand with the barest amount of magic restored the floor to pristine. 

If she thought this was messy, then she certainly couldn't stay for the rest of what was in store. The Matar estate is no place for the squeamish. 

“Look at it this way, Isaura. An untrained slave is like a lump of clay. Lacking structure and grace.” Scarlet grabbed her pet by his horns, just as the other woman had done earlier. This time he yelped as the movement made his pain spike, as his master pulled him upright. His tail curled around his waist to spare his modesty. “And like with clay, they require a skilled hand to sculpt them into something worthwhile. A firm hand to correct any imperfections.” With a slight shove, she let the slave fall before her guest.

The tiefling dropped hard, his knees hitting the floor with a thud and a sharp grunt. He hunched over, blinking back tears, body trembling with effort not to sit and put pressure on his wounds.

“Let's try this again,” Scarlet declared, nudging the toe of her boot into a welt on her pet's thigh. He choked on a wail and jolted forward until his forehead hit the tile. She did not need to say more, he should know what's expected of him now.

“I'm…s-sorry, madam.”

Good. He managed even with his mouth swollen.

“Sculpting is messy, lots of excess to trim off, lots of undesirable behaviors to train out. A true masterpiece requires time and effort.”

“I see now.” Isaura gave her hostess a respectful curtsy. “Thank you for showing me this, Lady Matar. I apologize for my unsightly behavior before. I realize I have much to learn.”

Scarlet smiled, putting on the mask of a patient instructor. “Indeed. But that is what us senior members of the Society are here for, to teach.” She gestured over to one of her servants, a quick order to fetch her guest's coat and hat. “Well this has been an eventful visit but I do need to continue some work. I'm sure you have other affairs to attend to.”

Isaura knew well enough to recognize her cue to leave. “Ah, of course. Thank you for having me.”

“Next time, I must insist you bring your little finch with you. I'd love to see him perform.” And it would do good for her pet to be made to compete. Promise punishment if he didn't behave just as well as the broken little bird.

The guard escorted Isaura out.

The little slave had found that lying on his side did not aggravate his wounds. Until Scarlet ground her foot into his tailbone.

“Sit up.”

He's letting his fear slip far more easily now. It's becoming easier to reduce him to tears. “But-”

She gathered the ropes. “Did I say you could talk? Isaura is a woman of delicate sensibilities. She wouldn't have been able to stomach this next part. Did you think we were done here?” She wrangled him back onto his knees, pinning his head down to force his back to arch. Then she tied his knees to his elbows.

Punishment is one thing. Making sure the lesson sticks is another matter entirely.

Scarlet addresses the servant, “bring me some chili oil.”

He was clever. She could see it in his eyes when he connected the dots. “N-no. No no wait! I'm sorry Master!”

“You will be soon enough. We're going to make sure your little stunt tonight never happens again.” The servant set down the jar and a basting brush on the table Scarlet stood beside. They were dismissed. 

“It won't! It won't!” He tried to crawl away, tried to roll onto his back to protect himself, but a tight grip on his tail halted the attempt. Kept his backside raised for easy access. “I won't do it again! Please!”

The spicy bite of the oil was already filling Scarlet's nose. “You certainly won't, if you wish to prevent this punishment in the future. Tonight however, you will take what you deserve like a good little slave.” She took the brush and soaked its bristles in the dark red liquid.

The oil seared into the tiefling's torn skin and his shrieks ripped through every room of the manor.

-

It was days before Itzal was able to sit again without his eyes watering. Over a week before the pain faded in full. That pain had been replaced with an ache in his neck, a soreness in his scalp, a sting in his cheeks. 

Master Scarlet got him well acquainted with having his horns jerked, his hair yanked, his ears pinched between sharp nails. She struck him if he so much as made an expression she didn't approve of, to the point Itzal feared he'd have permanent handprint-shaped bruises on his face. It got more difficult when she moved on to his tail.

Sculpting, she called it.

Trimming off the imperfections. Beating out undesired behavior.

His dreams brought him to a body that wasn't his. Cold and caged by red velvet museum ropes and its own immobility. Cold and unmoving like hardened clay. Onlookers who ogled with eyes too big and smiles too wide. Uncanny. Uncaring.

A week later, Master Scarlet brought him with her to a dinner party and those faces became reality. Everyone seemed to want a closer look at the new Champion. 

Itzal didn't dare resist.

[whumpsday]

Power Play

Writing Masterlist

content: kidnapping, ritual sacrifice, begging, hand whump, impalement, mouth whump, knives/skin carving, demon whumper, creepy whumper, major character death, gore

this is my piece for @zineofgid !! this was such an awesome project to work on :)

you can still buy the guys in distress zine here! proceeds go to the charity RAINN. there are limited physical copies and unlimited digital copies, as well as some merch left. do keep in mind that while my piece is sfw, this is an 18+ zine and a lot of other contributors' pieces are very much NOT sfw!

this piece was done as part of a collaboration with @whump-queen, with ocs we made together! he made art that accompanies this piece, you can view it here! it depicts the end of the story so you might wanna wait til after you read it though if you care about spoilers (also linked at the end)

-

Jonah’s breaths came hard and fast as Reese dumped him out of the large duffle bag, onto the cold floor of his basement.

He immediately tried to struggle to his feet, but his wrists and ankles had been bound with way too many layers of duct tape, making it impossible. Reese easily kicked him to the floor, placing a boot firmly on his chest and keeping him there.

“Ah-ah-ah.” his captor tutted, ripping the tape off his mouth. “I’m sorry to say that you will never see outside this room again.”

“You’re crazy!” Jonah screamed, unable to keep the terror out of his voice. His heart hammered in his chest, right under Reese’s boot.

“You have been messing with my campaign.” Reese countered, as if kidnapping was equivalent to Jonah doing his damn job. “Arnett didn’t start climbing in the polls until she brought you on as manager.” He dug his boot in deeper, making it a little hard for Jonah to breathe, pressing his bound wrists painfully into the floor under his back.

Despite admittedly-minimal efforts to retain his composure, Jonah found himself trembling. “So, what? You’re going to- kill me?”

There was no way he could fight this man off. Reese was bigger and stronger than him; it was pathetic how little he’d been able to struggle when Reese had initially incapacitated him. Now he was bound with tape and at an even bigger disadvantage. The thought that he could really die here blared through his mind like a siren, urging him to do whatever he could to escape, as if there was anything he could do.

“Not exactly. I’m not going to kill you.” Reese finally stepped off Jonah’s chest, only to kick him over and press a knee into his back instead. “Don’t mistake this as petty vengeance. I needed someone, and you happened to be an enticing target.”

It was only then, staring across the floor instead of at the ceiling, that Jonah noticed his surroundings.

A large pentagram, easily five feet, laid painted red in the center of the room, a hammer and nails set next to it.

“What the fuck?” he whispered in cold horror.

“Thanks to you, it’s clear that a good, honest campaign by a good, honest man isn’t enough to make it in politics. Luckily, there are other ways to get ahead in life, if you do enough research,” Reese explained, like it made perfect sense.

“Is that blood?” Jonah asked, voice small, staring at the red of the pentagram painted meticulously into the floor.

“It is. My very own.”

Jonah’s line of questioning was instantly interrupted when felt the side of a blade against his forearm.

He writhed, his struggles renewed. “Get away from me with that thing!”

“Hold still, or I might nick you. You want that tape off, don’t you?” Reese leaned down. Jonah could feel his breath on the back of his neck as Reese’s knee pressed further into his lower back.

Jonah went still, barring the tremors he couldn’t control. As much as he hated to admit it, Reese was right: aimlessly moving around with a knife millimeters from his skin would only get him hurt. He didn’t resist as he felt steel slide harmlessly against him, the layers of tape cut away and peeled off.

Before he could even think about running, Reese grabbed both his newly-freed hands and dragged him over to the pentagram. Jonah started struggling again, but there was little he could do against the iron grip.

Reese pointed to one of the triangles making up the pentagram. “You will kneel or I will make you kneel.”

He didn’t know what else to do, and pissing off his captor seemed like a recipe for disaster, so he knelt as indicated.

Reese bound one hand to Jonah’s body with more tape, bringing the other to a point of the pentagram. He pressed Jonah’s palm against the star’s tip, stepping firmly against his wrist to hold it there.

“Now, stay nice and still.”

Reese picked up the hammer and one of the nails.

“What are you doing?!” Jonah tried to pull his hand away, but Reese just pressed his boot down harder.

“What I said. Just making sure you stay still.” Reese positioned the nail in the center of Jonah’s hand, the sharp tip pricking at his skin. Jonah’s breath grew rapid in anticipation of what was about to happen to him.

“Wait, don’t, don’t don’t no no no-!”

Pain exploded in his hand as the THWACK of the hammer hit the nail and pierced his skin, and Jonah finally screamed. He tried again to pull his hand away, to pull his whole body away, but it was useless. He was trapped.

“Stop! Stop stop stop, you’re crazy!” he cried, tears spilling over and running down his face. The nail settled on the floor’s surface, just barely poking through the tender skin of his palm from the inside, making its way through muscle and ligaments and tendons.

“You can think what you like. Doesn’t matter to me,” Reese commented nonchalantly.

The hammer came down again. Jonah’s second scream was less intense than the first, as if his voice itself were scared, breaking off into a sob. A few more taps left the nail buried snugly in the floor, the head resting against the back of his hand as a bit of blood escaped from under it.

Jonah panted hard, adrenaline coursing through him. His hand wouldn’t move from where it sat fastened to the pentagram even after Reese removed his boot from his wrist: even twitching his fingers sent a horrible jolt through it.

“Good job, you’re doing very well.” Reese praised, patting Jonah on the head. “And now, the other one.”

“NO!” Jonah cried. “Stop! You have to stop!”

“Shh, it’s okay.” The sheer calm Reese talked about it with sent shivers down his spine. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Reese freed his uninjured hand, and Jonah clutched it protectively to his chest, shaking. “Leave me alone,” he begged tearily.

His captor grabbed his hand and brought it to the opposite point of the pentagram, stretching him out painfully and forcing his head and chest to the ground. Much to his dismay, Reese stepped down on his other wrist and readied the hammer and nails again.

Jonah strained his neck to look up at Reese, desperate. “What do you want? I’ll quit, okay? I’ll stop running Arnett’s campaign, you’ll never see me again. Just stop.”

“Oh, Jonah. Like I said, I needed someone. It just happened to be you.” Reese started on the other hand. No matter how much he screamed, it wouldn’t stop. Unlike the first nail, which seemed to slip in between his bones, this one landed right on top of the small, delicate bones inside his hand and smashed through them uncaring, the pain blinding.

Jonah was a mess by this point, sobbing into the floor. “I don’t wanna die like this,” he sniffled.

Reese cupped his face. “Look at it this way. You’re dying for something bigger than yourself. More powerful. Now, I think that’s about enough complaining out of you.”

The grip on his face grew tighter and tighter, fingers pressing tightly into the sides of his jaw, until Jonah was forced to open his mouth. Reese grabbed his tongue and pulled it, touching it to the center of the pentagram. Even among the throbbing pain in his hands and the horrifying situation, Jonah’s face crinkled in disgust.

Reese grabbed another nail.

Jonah’s disgust was immediately forgotten, replaced by overwhelming terror. He tried fruitlessly to shake his head away, making what little terrified noises of protest he could manage, as Reese settled the tip of the nail against his tongue.

A whine of fear escaped him, and he looked up at his captor pleadingly. Please don’t do this.

“Just try to relax,” Reese advised, as if it was at all possible.

The hammer slammed against the head of the nail, sending it straight through Jonah’s tongue and into the floor. Jonah wailed with intolerable pain, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, no longer able to form pleas. All he could taste was his own fresh blood, running over Reese’s painted on the floor.

Reese gave it a few more firm taps until the head of the nail almost crushed Jonah’s tongue under it, undeterred by Jonah’s cries.

“There we go.” Reese disappeared from Jonah’s tear-blurry line of sight. A moment later, he felt the side of the knife against the back of his neck. He squealed in distress, unable to even thrash against his bonds anymore.

But the knife didn’t plunge into him. Instead, it glided downward to the sound of tearing fabric until Jonah’s shirt fell limply in front of him. Reese ran a hand over his exposed back, Jonah’s tense muscles shuddering under the touch.

“This is the final step.” Jonah jolted as best he could in his immobilized state as he felt the tip of the knife between his shoulderblades- not digging in yet, but threatening to.

“Nghh!” Jonah couldn’t say much else with his tongue nailed down. He couldn’t even shake his head. Nothing he could do to indicate NO would be enough here, anyway. Reese didn’t care for his opinion.

He screamed as the knife buried itself in flesh, not deep enough to touch bone, but far from shallow. It glided along his back in a sweeping stroke, before Reese lifted it and picked a new spot to carve into him, no matter how much he cried and tried to writhe away from the sharp, insistent pain.

Slice after bold, swirling slice, Reese painted a pattern in the splitting of his skin, spending the most time on an intricate design between his shoulder blades. Jonah was pretty sure it was supposed to be an eye, but he was too hazy with agony and blood loss to tell.

Finally, Reese pulled the knife away from his mangled back. “There, all done. Soon you won’t even feel it.”

Jonah could only sob in response, trembling from pain and fear. Everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had been through a paper shredder. He could feel the blood running off the sides of his back and pooling beneath his folded-up legs, soaking his knees.

He watched as Reese lit candles in a circle around him, painting the room in a warm glow, and began chanting in a language Jonah couldn’t understand- Latin, maybe? What a pointless thing to die for. What would happen to him when none of this worked and no demon showed up? Would Reese concede and let him go? Probably not. Jonah imagined the knife plunging into his chest, the last thing he ever saw the face of his murderer. At least the pain would stop.

Slowly, as Reese chanted, The sigil carved into Jonah’s back began to burn.

Just a little at first, but getting hotter and hotter until Jonah was writhing in pain, trying to free his hands despite the nails holding them in place and hurting worse and worse the more he tugged on them. What was happening to him? It felt like someone had run boiling oil through the gashes in his skin. It was unbearable. He needed it to stop. Jonah squeezed his eyes closed, releasing a sound akin to a dying animal at the excruciating pain.

When he opened his eyes… a figure stood in front of him, half-materialized, like it was creating itself out of thin air. The warm orange glow of the candles began to shift to a cold, too-bright violet.

He strained his eyes up to see, the angle much less than ideal with his tongue bolted to the floor. He wasn’t sure if that was the reason they looked so massive, or if they really were abnormally tall, but a glance at Reese for comparison proved it to be the latter.

Everything about them looked unnatural, all bright colors that might mark a plant or animal as toxic, screaming at his nailed-down body to run. Glowing fuschia markings slithered all over their skin, the pattern looking suspiciously like the one Jonah could feel carved into his back. A giant scorpion-like tail snaked out from behind them.

Jonah stared up at the- the demon, apparently. As their form became more solid, Jonah’s back burned less and less, the only thing he could possibly be thankful for in this moment.

The demon eyed him back threefold, an impossibly-wide grin full of sharp teeth splitting their six-eyed face. Jonah couldn’t help but whimper under their gaze.

“Izuloth!” Reese shouted, suddenly seeming so much less intimidating compared to the monstrosity before him.

Izuloth broke eye contact to direct their attention to him, their smile faltering and their eyebrow twitching with annoyance. Several of their eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’ve summoned you! I’ve captured a sacrifice, carved your sigil, drawn this pentagram in my own blood. You will now grant me power, as promised,” Reese declared confidently.

The smile returned. “Awfully presumptuous, human. I don’t remember promising anything.”

“What- what are you talking about?” Reese sputtered. “That’s what it said in the book! You are now under my control!”

Izuloth smirked. “Oh, is that what it said. That was nice of them to put in there. Makes fools like you much more likely to summon me. Hm, I don’t think I care for your attitude, though.”

They snapped their fingers.

Jonah watched in horror as Reese’s body began to unravel in front of him. Skin peeled from muscle, exposing raw, bloody flesh and piling on the floor below in a wet heap that splashed Jonah’s face with blood- he could taste it on his outstretched tongue.

Reese tried to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle as his tongue joined the rest of his exposed muscles in shredding to bits, as if taken to on all sides, inside and out, with an invisible cheese grater. It was over within a minute: the remnants of his body collapsed to the floor, twitching with life for only a moment before going still.

Jonah was alone with Izuloth.

He whined in terror, too frozen to even try tugging at his restraints. If the demon could do that, it wouldn’t be any use anyway.

Izuloth, to his dismay, turned their attention back to him. “Now, where were we?”

They reached a hand down to pet his hair. Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensed up in anticipation.

Suddenly, Izuloth grabbed his hair and pulled. Jonah’s eyes flew right back open as his tongue ripped right out of the nail, bisecting it down the middle with an agonizing tear. His scream of pain cut short when Izuloth grabbed him by the frayed end of his tongue, their many-eyed face inches away.

“Pretty thing, I think I’ll keep you.”

-

ART BY AKIA WHUMP-QUEEN!!!

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everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

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

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

one-shots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthisiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

[in-love-with-writing-whump]

Prompt:

Whumpee, trying to avoid a really bad situation, is 'saved' by Whumper, who puts them into a worse situation as their pet/employee/whatever you want, but if they leave, their team/family will suffer even worse, and Whumpee just can't let that happen.

[goosewhumps]

idk maybe it’s just me but i’m a bit annoyed that so many prompts on whumpblr need to have a whumper in them. don’t get me wrong, i get the appeal and i do like whump with whumpers in it sometimes but there’s so much you can do without one and it feels like most people just ignore it

[whumperer-86]

Live Surgery Room ep22

Dr Su is under the rubble trying to save an injured pregnant lady and he has old psychological trauma that makes his hands shake

he tried so hard to heal himself and to steady his hands so he can save the mother and her baby

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 133

prev next

[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 2 - Running out of time

TW: blood, gun violence, tourniquet, strong language, verbally abusive whumper, whumper turned whumpee, tobacco, dilf in distress, open ending

@medwhumpmay

The roles were always pretty clear between Fetch and Erick. Fetch would give orders and Erick would follow them. If Erick didn't follow them, then Fetch would hurt him. And when Erick got hurt, Fetch would patch him back up.

But roles have a tendency to reverse sometimes, and on the rare instance that it happened between Fetch and Erick, it was usually pretty drastic, like...let's say Fetch took a bullet, and it was up to Erick to get him to safety. Or, well...he got himself to safety first. Driving away from the incident, before pulling over and realising he'd already lost quite a lot of blood. Okay, no reason to panic.

"Kid, come here," he said through gritted teeth.

Erick didn't need to be told twice, for once, scrambling out of his hiding spot in the back of the van and joining Fetch in the front, sitting in the passenger's seat, eyes widening when he saw the blood pooling beneath Fetch's chair.

"A-are you okay, sir?" he asked.

"What does it fucking look like?" Fetch snapped, "get some rope and a screwdriver or a wrench. I'll teach you how to improvise a tourniquet."

"A-and then what?!" Erick asked, "Take you to hospital?"

"Absolutely fucking not!" Fetch said, "They'd call the cops on my ass right away. No, I need to call Tito, but first this!"

"R-right," Erick said, quickly diving back into the back to search Fetch's bag for rope. He didn't have to look too hard. His bag was filled with coild of rope, rolls of tape, cloths, cuffs, chains— But I digress...

Erick grabbed the first coil of rope he found, before opening the toolbox behind the driver's seat, grabbing the first thing he saw; a hammer.

"Will this work?" he asked, showing Fetch the items.

"Good enough," Fetch said with a groan, "tie the rope around my leg, right here."

Erick nodded, wrapping the rope around Fetch's thigh where he pointed and tying a knot in it.

"L-like that?"

"Yeah, now stick the hammer between and twist it to tighten it," Fetch instructed.

"I-isn't that dangerous? To cut off the blood flow like that?" Erick asked.

"That bullet nicked a fucking artery, do you want me to bleed out?!" Fetch snapped, grabbing the teen by the front of his shirt.

"S-sorry, you're right," Erick quickly said, before sliding the hammer underneath the rope as instructed and beginning to turn it to tighten the rope.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," Fetch said, "find a way to fix it in place."

"Tape!" Erick said, quickly retrieving a roll from Fetch's bag, even remembering to grab a piece of cloth as well to put additional pressure on the wound, planning to tape that into place as well, but it was hard to work when Fetch kept pulling away and even kicked at him.

"God damn it! Are you trying to kill me?!" he growled.

"I know it hurts, but I can't help you if you don't stop moving," Erick said.

"Don't talk back to me!"

"I think you can make an exception just this once," Erick said, pressing a bit harder than necessary on his wound.

"Son of a— Fine! Just hurry up!"

"Then hold. Still."

Fetch growled, but tried a bit harder to hold still while Erick finished taping everything into place, before sitting back, absent-mindedly wiping the blood on his hands onto his jeans.

"O-okay, now what?" he asked.

Did Fetch know someone who could treat him? Could they trick someone at the hospital so they wouldn't call the police? Was he even in the right state of mind to think clearly?

"Now we switch seats," Fetch said, already holding his arm out.

Erick somewhat awkwardly let him lean on him as he switched from the driver's seat to the passenger's seat, attempting to hold back a pained groan before pulling his phone from his pocket. Erick sat back on the floor between the two seats still. Even though Fetch had told him they were switching, he still felt it would be wrong to just go sit in his seat without express permission. Was he going to ask him to drive? He'd only had a lesson or two when Fetch happened to have a good day, so he wasn't too sure he was up for it just yet.

"Tito, it's me," Fetch suddenly said, pulling Erick from his thoughts. It seemed he'd finally started his call.

"Jonas? I don't have time for your bullshit, put me through to Tito," Fetch continued, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and handing them to Erick so he could help him.

Erick gingerly took a cigarette from the pack, handing it to Fetch before taking his lighter and lighting it for him. It sounded like he could use the nicotine to get through the phonecall alone, let alone the fact that he just got shot.

"I don't care if he's having sex with his wife right now. Put him on!" he yelled.

Fetch took a couple of drags from his cigarette while waiting for Jonas to put his boss on the line, almost managing to finish it before he finally got an answer again.

"Tito, about time," he said, "I need a doctor, pronto."

Erick couldn't help but to feel relieved as Fetch got through to Tito. He wouldn't put it past Jonas to stall until Fetch bled out, but it seemed like today wouldn't be the day...yet.

"I don't think I can make it that far. I got two hours and an inexperienced driver. Can't you send someone to meet me halfway?" Fetch explained, "tell them I got an arterial bleed and a tourniquet, they'll understand— Erick start the car."

That seemed like a clear enough order. Erick nodded, quickly getting behind the wheel and needing an attempt or two before he managed to get the van's engine going. He winced a bit, it didn't help his confidence much, but they didn't have much choice. He put on his seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors while waiting for Fetch to finish his phonecall.

"I told you they'd understand," he grumbled, "we're leaving now. I'll call you when we get there."

He hung up, tossing his phone in the little compartment below the radio, before putting on his own seatbelt as well.

"Okay," he said, surprisngly calmly, "check your mirrors, put her in first gear, and if the road is clear, turn on your blinker and slowly take your foot off the clutch until you feel it catch then give a little gas to pull up slowly."

Erick nodded, following his instructions and managing to pull away surprisingly smoothly. Frankly, it was easy to stay calm if Fetch was calm too. He hadn't gone much further than a drive around the block or two in his first driving lessons, so Fetch knew he had to keep the teen calm to be able to get to their destination safely and without being pulled over.

"Okay, now turn onto the ramp and start speeding up. You gotta be going fast enough to merge onto the freeway safely."

"I-I've never driven on the freeway before," Erick said, panicking slightly.

"You were gonna have to do it a first time eventually, now step on the gas," Fetch said, "keep an eye on your mirror, check over your shoulder, and turn on your blinker. People will give you space if you don't cut them off."

"There's no one next to me or behind me," Erick reported, checking over his shoulder before turning on the indicator.

"Small movements on the wheel at this speed," Fetch reminded him.

"Y-yes sir."

"Great, now just stay between the lines, I'll let you know when you have to get off. Keep your speed constant, don't slow down too much, and for the love of god don't speed. We don't need any cops on our ass right now."

"What if there are cops?" Erick asked, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of every vehicle around them.

"You ignore them," Fetch said, "if you act nervous you'll only draw their attention."

"But I am nervous."

"How do you think I feel?! I got shot in the fucking leg!" Fetch snapped.

"Don't yell at me! I'm driving you to your doctor, aren't I?" Erick snapped back.

Fetch looked like he wanted to hit him, but he knew better. Erick also knew very well that his attitude would catch up with him eventually, but for now he was in the right. Fetch needed him right now...wait, maybe Fetch was also scared? Erick immediately felt bad.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "it's going to be okay. I'll try not to draw any attention to us, and we'll get to your doctor in time, and it's all going to be okay."

"I don't care whether I die or not, but if you don't scrub every inch of this van once we get there, you'll have another thing coming," Fetch grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Erick just said.

Honestly, he was already planning to clean the van as soon as he got the chance. It would give him something to do while waiting for the doctor to treat Fetch, and the slippery pool of blood just below the pedals were already getting on his nerves.

Either way, Fetch settled down a bit, returning to giving directions as calmly as he could. Erick decided to pretend it was just a very long driving lesson, trying his hardest to ignore how pale Fetch was looking, or the tremble in his hand when he pointed to something, or the waver in his voice when he spoke up again after being quiet for a bit.

Eventually they left the freeway, and the city behind them, beginning to drive down long, empty roads. Erick relaxed a bit more. The odds of being seen by police, or causing an accident in his inexperience decreased a lot. However, it seemed Fetch's odds were also decreasing a bit, as his condition seemed to keep getting worse. Was the tourniquet not tight enough after all? They had a long stretch of empty and straight road ahead, so Erick wagered a bit of a longer look, finally noticing the second pool of blood gathering underneath the passenger's seat.

"F-Fetch? Fetch! Are you bleeding anywhere else?!"

"What?" Fetch replied, seeming to have trouble focusing, "Of cours'not. I'd know if I was...bleeding anywhere else."

"J-just stay awake, please, I-I don't know what to do!" Erick said, "how far out are we? Where are we going? Fetch? Fetch?!"

He promptly slammed the brakes as Fetch didn't reply, the engine nearly stalling until he remembered to switch gears, before pulling over and bringing the van to a full stop. It seemed Fetch had passed out, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure out what to do next. He quickly grabbed Fetch's phone, the screen thankfully covered in bloody fingerprints to help him figure out his passcode, especially as the prints got vaguer after each input.

"No way it's that easy," Erick mumbled, trying the combination 1-2-3-4.

"Okay, fuck, it was that easy," Erick sighed, shaking his head as he opened the contacts app and swiped to the 'recents' tab. All numbers were unlisted, but the one at the top started with 702, the area code for Las Vegas. It had to be Tito's number, or at least the fastest way to reach him. He quickly pressed 'call' and held the phone to his ear as he listened to it ring.

"Ah, Fetcher, that was quick. I thought you said you were further away?"

"Mr Rana!" Erick said, "i-it's me, actually. Fetch passed out and I don't know where to go!"

"Oh dear, oh you poor boy," Tito said, "if I give you the address, do you think you can find it on your own?"

"Y-yeah, I think so, thank you," Erick said, "please hurry, I think he's lost too much blood."

"Just breathe, Erick. I'll have Jonas text you the address right away," Tito said, "I'm putting you on speaker, can you put me on speaker too so you can call and drive at the same time?"

"R-right, okay," Erick said, lowering the phone and finding the speaker button. He turned the volume all the way up and kept the phone in his lap as he started the van again when the text already came though.

"When you open the link Jonas sent you, it should automatically show you where you are and how far away you are from the destination, okay?" Tito said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know how Maps works," Erick said, "um...looks like I'm ten minutes out. I-it's just down the road."

"Very good," Tito said, "now watch your speed. Ten minutes should be just fine."

"There's a cemetary only six minutes down the other way, sir."

"Jonas... Ignore him, Erick. Just keep going like you were before."

Erick was already ignoring Jonas, the sound of his voice sending chills down his spine otherwise. He also didn't quite watch his speed. What were the odds of police catching him these last ten minutes? Fetch would run out of time if he didn't hurry, and honestly he couldn't even begin to imagine what to do if he died here today.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, glancing down at the map to make sure the next turn coming up was his. He slowed down a bit too late, nearly spinning out as he turned onto the dirt road, but he managed to get the van straight again. His destination would come up in about two minutes, but he had no idea what to look for.

"Mr Rana, what am I looking for?" he asked, wincing a bit at how teary he sounded.

"Our associates should have a plain truck, like a small moving truck," Jonas answered, "it'll probably be hidden from the road behind a building. If you can't locate it just honk the horn and they'll show themselves."

"O-okay, okay," Erick said breathlessly, eyes darting to either side of the road to look for anything that could hide a small truck.

The phone beeped that he had reached his destination, and all there was was a large barn. Erick slammed the brakes again, pulling up in front of the barn and just started honking.

The barn doors swung open, revealing the small truck parked inside, and Erick was too relieved that they'd made it to care about the two men approaching the van with guns. He just stopped honking and showed his hands, showed he was unarmed. He wanted to ask Tito for advice, but when he looked down at the phone he saw the call had ended. Great.

One of the men ordered him to get out of the van, making him stand with his hands on the hood, while the other one dragged Fetch out of the passenger's seat and towards the barn. Erick was searched for any weapons, before being allowed to relax.

"Sorry about that, can't be too careful these days," the man said.

Erick wasn't sure what to reply, he felt like throwing up, or collapsing, or anything, but he couldn't really move.

"Okay, why don't you go inside and help yourself to some water?" the man said, "I'll park the van behind the barn. Go on."

Erick managed to nod, slowly heading inside the barn. He was probably going to get shit for not cleaning the van right away like he promised he would...if Fetch would even survive to give him any.

shoutout to @momagie-blog for helping me come up with the plot for this prompt. I was a little lost in the sauce and she helped me simplify it~

Open end, ftw!

Jonas and Tito are side characters in Villain's View.

Masterlist Main account

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 20

“We can’t all win” Failure | City in ruin | Boot on throat

Content warning: implied mass murder

Villain couldn’t tear their eyes from the burning city.

It looked like something from a disaster film. Cars were burning, buildings were crumbling, and everything seemed covered in a thick layer of ash. The world was silent, and that was far worse than any screaming could ever be.

 Villain stood, utterly numb, on the last building left standing. Besides them stood the person responsible. 

“You were right about this city,” Hero said, voice horace. They sounded close to tears. They didn’t avert their eyes from the destruction. “It was corrupt down to its roots. I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but you were right the entire time.”

Villain’s throat was too dry to respond. They felt like they couldn’t breathe. 

“I tried for years to ignore what you were exposing. I pretended you were just cherrypicking a few bad actors, that the problem was surface level and easily solved. I was wrong,” Hero shook their head, eyes distant. “But you were wrong too. You can’t threaten and blackmail that kind of issue away. That level of corruption can’t just be cleaned up. You have to pull it out. Burn the fields, wipe the slate clean and try again.”

Hero’s head turned to face Villain, and the sudden movement was enough to jerk Villain from their stupor. For the first time, Villain looked at Hero. Their once white uniform was stained with blood, traces of it spattering their face. Hero’s eyes were filled with tears, full of grief, and yet Villain couldn’t see a hint of regret. 

“You were always trying to improve this city, even when they called you a monster for it. You understand what it means to make something truly good, and you were trying to show the world that,” Hero gestured to the destruction around them. “There’s nothing in the way now. We can do something great here,”

There was no bitterness in Hero’s expression. No anger, no resentment. There was only hope, burning and genuine, the look of a hero looking forward to a better future. 

It terrified Villain. 

Hero outstretched a bloody hand to Villain. They smiled, soft and sincere, as the world burned around them. “You’ll help me, right? We can make a better city.”

Villain knew what they should have done. They should have lashed out, refused to work with a mass murderer and stand on what few morals they had left. They should have fought back.

But they didn’t. They didn’t dare to. Instead, Villain took Hero’s hand without a word.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumper taunting Whumpee for being captured by them, saying how weak they are and even going as far as calling them a "damsel in distress", much to Whumpee's anger. However, as the taunting continued, Whumpee's self esteem took a hit, and they began to worry.

What if they're useless to the team/Caretaker? What if they really are just a damsel in distress and nothing else to them?

[depressed-werewolf]

Whumpril Day 1: Distress Call

tw: implied kidnapping, possessive whumper, failed escape attempt, drugging

Whumpee stood at the payphone and dialed the number. They took another wary glance behind them. They didn’t have much time before Whumper caught up with them and there was only one person they felt like they could call.

They took a deep breath. “Caretaker?”

They heard frantic noises on the other end of the line, as if Caretaker had knocked something over.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, is that it you?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m near Fourth Street. I can’t… I can’t stay in one place for long, they’ll find me.”

Caretaker’s voice was frantic on the other end of the  phone. “What? Who is ‘they’? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Whumper, just… please come get me. I’m scared.”

Simply saying their name made Whumpee shiver. They glanced behind them again, they were alone… for now.

Caretaker sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

Whumpee could only pray they got there in time. “Please hurry,” they said in a small voice.

“I will.”

There was a click and the other hung up. Whumpee leaned against the alley wall and closed their eyes. They hoped Whumper wouldn’t find them. They’d barely even managed to get away, Whumpee didn’t know what Whumper would do if they found them, but they knew it wouldn’t be good.

“You know they won’t get here in time.”

Whumpee jumped. They knew that voice too well, far too well. When they opened their eyes they saw Whumper standing beside them, leaning casually against the alley wall. 

Whumpee scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over their own feet in their panic. “Just leave me alone, please,” they begged.

“Now why would I do that?”

Whumper quickly closed the distance between them, tilting Whumpee upwards and forcing them to look them in the eyes.

Whumpee flinched back violently. “Don’t touch me!”

They stroked the other’s cheek fondly, ignoring Whumpee’s obvious panic. “Oh, whumpee, when will you learn? You’re never getting away from me.”

“Get off me, get off me!”

They shoved Whumper and continued scrambling backwards, but their back hit the wall. 

Whumper shook their head and continued prowling towards them, pinning them against the wall. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place, Whumpee. But don’t worry, I’ll bring you home.”

They noticed the rag in Whumper’s hand too late. They struggled when Whumper pressed the rag against their mouth and noise, but they ultimately had nowhere to go.

“Please, please no,” they whispered.

But by then the chemicals were already making their vision go blurry. Whumper said something but they couldn’t make out the words, their mind was foggy. The last thing they remembered before passing out was falling into Whumper’s arms.

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Distress Call

TW: Domestic violence, victim blaming for the same, implied self-injury, family death and abandonment, abusive employment relationship.

*****

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 05-25-2026 at 20:23 MST:

“Hi Dad. I know you won’t get this, but. Sometimes I’m glad this voicemail is still up. Pretty dumb, huh? Anyways. Things are going really well here. The Director’s already promoting me to Lead Technician! He might even be having me write part of his next paper for a journal. Man, I’d love to see the look on my teachers’ faces now. Fuck those guys, right? The experiments can be pretty intense, but I’m managing. It’s all gonna make things better for everyone in the end, right? Anyways. Talk to you — well. I’ll call again soon. I. I miss you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between ALICIA JACOBSON and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 09-21-2026 between 17:15 and 17:35 MST:

“Hi! You on your way?”

“sorry can’t make it running behind with work”

“You said that the last time too”

“Look I was hoping to talk to you about this today so I’ll just say it here”

“Maybe it’s none of my business but I read that paper you wrote and”

“Did you really test that on PEOPLE???”

“you’re right it really isn’t your business”

“I’m worried about you”

“well don’t be”

“You’re not like this”

“i’m not like i was in school you mean”

“good”

“i was headed nowhere before the director picked me”

“That’s not true”

“anyway i’ve got a meeting with him now gotta go”

“give me a call when you’re not going to lecture me”

“Look if you ever need help getting out, just let me know, okay???”

“I’ll always be here for you if you need me”

“Love you”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 01-14-2027 at 19:55 MST:

“Hey, um, Dad… [Yawn.] It’s been a while. But I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference, right? Ha… It’s been kind of rough. Not — nothing I can’t handle, I mean. Just, one of those things downstairs went and bit me the other day. Can you believe that? It just fucking bit me. Don’t worry, I taught it a lesson. The bite still hurts like hell, though. Eh, I’ll deal. I’m going to present at this big genetics conference next week about the paper I just finished. My name was even on it! Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, if I do well, I’m hoping the Director will cut me some slack over the whole… I won’t get into it. But then, if you could really hear this, maybe you’d have some advice. Anyway. Bye for now.”

—

from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 10-28-2027 at 14:33 MST:

“hey sorry for falling off the face of the earth”

“can we tlak”

“* talk (haven’t slept in 4 days now haha)”

“look i can’t talk about it here but its kind of important”

—

Call from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 10-28-2027 at 23:46 MST:

I’m sorry, the voicemail box for the person you’re calling is currently full. Please try again later.

“…Fuck.”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT on 11-14-2027 at 20:01 MST:

“Hey Mom? So… It’s been a while. I know... I know it didn’t go great last time. But could you maybe give me a call? I. I need to talk about something. After the stuff you told me about last time, I just hoped you might know what to do. If I’m blowing this out of proportion, or… I just need to talk, okay?! I know you’re mad at Dad, but he’s dead, and it’s not my fucking fault if he did the kind of things you said. I was a kid. So maybe cut me some slack and give me a chance. Please. Or don’t, I guess. Love you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between MELISSA BENNETT and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 11-14-2027 between 20:05 and 20:11 MST:

“Don’t call me again.”

“are you kidding”

“you couldn’t even work up the guts to “ —

Your message could not be sent.

“seriously?”

Your message could not be sent.

“you said all this stuff about dad, abuse this cheating that, acting like you’re better or whatever. guess what though you’re not”

Your message could not be sent.

“good people don’t give up on their kids”

Your message could not be sent.

“you know what, maybe dad did hit you. can’t blame him”

Your message could not be sent.

“fucking bitch”

Your message could not be sent.

—

Messages from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 11-14-2027 at 20:15-20:17 MST:

“so it’s like that then”

“‘oh I’ll always be there barclay if you need out of there just call me barclay barclay please let me help~’”

“guess that was all bullshit”

“so bye”

—

Message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 12-25-2027 at 21:21-21:23 MST:

“hey dad I tried calling a while back but your vm box is full (my fault haha)”

This number is out of service.

“guess this is really it huh”

This number is out of service.

“love you”

This number is out of service.

—

Draft message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT, last modified on 12-31-2027 at 21:55 MST:

“you’re probably not going to get this but I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it I just get stressed out and it makes me say some stupid shit and okay wow when I say it like that I wouldn’t talk to me either so nevermind”

—

“Clay?”

Barclay didn’t move from his position of being slumped forward in his seat as he clutched the phone in his shaking hand. The Director’s voice was kind, concerned even, but Barclay didn’t want his mentor seeing him like this, and he didn’t trust his voice not to break if he said anything.

He startled when a stray tear drop hit the screen with an audible plop.

“Clay, what’s wrong? Here, let me see,” Richardson insisted, pulling the phone from his hand.

Barclay didn’t resist.

“Oh, Clay…” the Director said as he scrolled through his texts, his voice filled with concern. Or disappointment. “I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this.”

Barclay ducked his head and shoved his hands under his armpits, hoping the Director wouldn’t ask to see his wrists. “It’s fine, sir. Really,” he muttered.

The Director stopped scrolling at a certain point, and for a second he scowled down at his protegé.

Barclay closed in on himself further, bracing for the worst.

The Director’s expression softened. “I can’t let you keep doing this,” he said in a firm but gentle tone, pocketing the phone. “You deserve better that to have such unreliable people in your life.”

“But…!” Barclay protested, jerking his head up to look at the Director with wide eyes.

The Director cocked an eyebrow in warning, though his kind smile remained unchanged.

“O-of course. Thank you, sir,” Barclay quickly corrected himself, looking back down with a tense smile.

He should be happy. The Director, at least, was still there for him, no matter how many times he’d screwed up. So the rest of it… it was all worth it, right?

—

Messages from ALICIA JACOBSON to BARCLAY FLETCHER on 06-17-2028 at 16:42 MST:

“OMG I’m so sorry. Are you OK???”

“I just saw this”

“A lot of stuff happened. I had to get a new phone. I’ll tell you all about it”

“Whenever you want to talk”

“My offer still stands by the way”

“Barclay???”

“I don’t know if you’re getting these, but please be OK. Love you lots”

This number is out of service.

*****

Director David Richardson and Alicia Jacobson are @skinofafish’s characters. Barclay Fletcher, Jason Fletcher, and Melissa Bennett are my characters.

[unchartedperils]

If you’re a fellow whumper say I and hi to our sweet little guest Lara Croft before you leave, unlike her who can’t thanks to her New Daddy Conrad Roth’s debt with my Russian friends here in Liberty City.

[floral-comet-whump]

Whumpee that deceives Whumper

They rack their brain to memorize every little movement, every indicator of Whumper's mood, every pattern. At some point, they even learn to predict Whumper.

They know what Whumper likes to see. They know what they want within a few minutes, what's going to happen to them. They're powerless to stop it.

Sometimes Whumper wants them to silently cry on the floor, so they do. It would be foolish not to conserve energy while they can.

Sometimes Whumper is already in a bad mood. They probe, both because the knowledge is invaluable and because then Whumper will take it out on them.

Whumpee has a little internal guide to how to take punishments. Begin as defiant, but still shake. Look like they're trying to conceal their fear. Gradually break. It starts off as a yelp or sob or whimper followed by an immediate insult, then Whumpee goes quiet for a bit until it's “too much,” begging quietly. And then it's as if a dam has been broken, frantically pleading for mercy, for a reprieve. They look at Whumper with wide, teary eyes, and both their true self and their facade just want it to stop.

Their cries turn quiet as their energy runs out, until they can't bear to look at anything. Their flinch at Whumper's hand on their chin doesn't need to be faked. Their distress is real, and they let themselves whimper. Whumper likes displays of exhausted weakness, it makes them feel as if they've won.

They lean into the little coos and pets Whumper gives after, trying not to gag. Alarms of panic ring through their head, and they acknowledge them.

It would be easier to lose themselves in the comfort after the torture. It would be so much easier to become a shell of a person. They already act like one. Why can't they give up?

The emotional exhaustion after they've been left alone. The dark quiet. Their steadying breath. The scent of both blood and anticeptic. The locked door. The pain.

They can escape once Whumper deems them broken enough to let out unsupervised. It's just a matter of time, just a matter of maintaining this act. A matter of trust from a sadistic torturer that keeps Whumpee in a basement for no reason other than their own pleasure.

They have to keep going.

[withdrawingramen]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[whumperer-86]

Chicago fire S11 ep19

[distracted-obsessions]

Ok, but imagine Villain/Henchman/Assassin Whumpee being found by the heroes while they raided Supervillain Whumper's lair and they take Whumpee into custody. They don't handcuff Whumpee because they aren't fighting back (either too injured or in shock) but as they lead Whumpee out of the lair, Whumpee stops.

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

Whumpee pulls away from them and goes deeper into the lair. Every time the heroes grab them, they get more and more distressed, saying that they can't leave. They won't leave. After a minute, they start screaming out a name that the heroes don't recognize.

Just as one of the heroes goes to knock Whumpee out, they see a child crawl out from under the stairs and run straight for Whumpee who drops to their knees and hugs the child tightly, shushing their cries and whispering soft, comforting words. "Shh, it's ok. Mommy/Daddy is here. I'm ok. We're ok. it's ok. Shh."