#femwhump

[whump-a-la-mode]

I was lucky enough to be able to commission some art of Artemis, and the main character Fera, from my friend @corbytheking​! Want to read Artemis? Start here!

Individual images below the cut

[justwhumpythings]

do you know of anything with female whumpee and male caretaker? i feel like this is such a rare pairing but im craving this content lately

I can't offer much in the way of suggestions I'm afraid, as female whumpees aren't my thing. Hopefully someone else can in the replies though!

[veneataur]

Whumptober 2/31

prompt: "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back."

fandom: original fiction

tw: femwhump

His anger is just beneath the surface and it’s taking everything in him to keep from lashing out at June. There’s time for that later, right now he’s just happy that she’s breathing on her own. The image of her simply collapsing after defeating her attacker is seared into his brain. He can’t banish the thought of why her. It’s not that he doubts her determination. If there’s one thing anyone never failed to say about June, it was that she’s stubborn. There’re so many times, though, that he thinks stubbornness will only get her so far.

It's times like this, when she’s in and out of consciousness, drugged up but still in pain from broken ribs, broken fingers, tears in her knees, and a collapsed lung that he wishes she could just heal herself. They’ve tried that, however, and the outcome is worse than simply dealing with the pain.

“Mav,” she says in more of a hoarse whisper. He jumps to his feet, closing the inch or two he’d left between them.

“Yes. What do you need? Are you hurting?” He hears the panic in his voice but gives it little care.

“Stop worrying. I can feel it.” Speaking is still difficult, and he has to strain to hear her. “I’m fine. Not going anywhere, anytime soon.” She pauses often, sometimes in the middle of words, but he’s patient. That’s his role here it seems. Now, she just has to keep up her end of the deal.

[roughlywhumps]

"You're pathetic, Softpaw. You know that?"

The judge's voice was mellow, sharp and fearsome all at once. She advanced on the smaller woman, Softpaw's back on the edge of the sofa seat, dwarfed by the floor to ceiling bookcases behind her.

Softpaw looked up, tears blurring her vision as she fought the fuzziness and raw emotion welling up in her. She couldn't remember the last time Nerens allowed her to sleep properly. And if it wasn't today, then it was the day before when Softpaw nodded off learning the docket organization system and her stern Master caught her. She'd struck Softpaw across the jaw so hard it made her see stars.

"I-I'm sorry," Softpaw said, her voice thin and shaking as she rose a hand to the ugly purple bruise on her jaw. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "You made me this way, Ma'am."

Softpaw flinched as Nerens turned her hips and pressed a foot across her neck, forcing her into an uncomfortable position. Softpaw's hands hovered above Nerens' foot, too terrified to touch her, her teeth gritted to keep a whimper from escaping.

"Oh, my little sneak thief," Nerens eyes narrowed and she applied a little more pressure. "I never said that was a bad thing."

"You're pathetic, Whumpee. You know that?"

Whumpee slowly blinked their eyes open for a moment, struggling to see Whumper's figure looming over them through the blurriness of their tears. "I'm sorry. You made me this way, sir."

They squeezed their eyes shut when a foot came to rest on their neck. "I never said it was a bad thing."

[roughlywhumps]

(Not exactly a spell, but this is a scenario I imagine might be quite whumptastic for my OC in my Blades in the Dark campaign.)

Quellyn's infirmary room was even more cozy than the rest of her home, but it was cold comfort considering the sharp blades and surgical tools carefully laid out next to the bed Colt was laid on.

"You ready, Colt?" The old apothecary's voice was professional and firm, both reassuring and concerning at once. "You sure you wanna do this?"

Colt raised her head from the headrest portion of the bed and looked at the scalpel in Quellyn's steady hand. She took a shaky breath and offered a watery smile. "Y-yeah, it's... it's time to let this go."

The apothecary had the politeness not to ask, only returning a warm smile and nodding gently as she guided her patient back into a face-down position nestled in the headrest.

"I've numbed the local area, but you'll still feel some pain and pinching." Quellyn warned, tracing a finger across where she intended to make the incision. "You said it's here? This scar doesn't seem only a few months old - it's barely here anymore."

"We... we had a Physick with us for a while," Colt mumbled into the headrest, her hands forming fists repeatedly at her sides as she tried to ease her anxiety. "She sutured it special like and we healed quick."

"I see," Quellyn said, and Colt could tell by her vague but steady tone and the weird pressure behind her left ear that the apothecary had made the first cut. She tried not to think of it.

"Ah, here." The old woman's voice was soft and serious, and Colt felt her press a hand firmly between her shoulder blades as she positioned to remove the shard. "Try not to move, Colt."

"Mmn." A tight-lipped mumble was all Colt managed.

The former ghostwrangler wasn't sure if she imagined the metal-on-metal clink or if she really heard it as Quellyn's tweezers made contact with the shard of metal embedded in Colt's skin. She didn't have much time to think about it before pain seared through her and she felt the chill of a supernatural vision force itself into her mind.

The Red Sash casino, that first score with the crew. Maker's harsh, commanding voice - "Kill them, Colt" - and her unquestioning, simple minded following of orders. The static tingle of electricity arcing between her fingers as she reached into the ghostfield and harnessed a tempest. The flash of lighting that pierced through the thug, killing him in an instant.

The second thug - she can't even remember what gang they belonged to - she killed out of desperation to save Maker. That same static tingle, the reach through the ghostfield, the flash of light and seeing their eyes go dim as they fell lifeless to the floor.

Then the dripping.

The drip-drip-drop of condensation in those cursed tunnels beneath the city, the cloying darkness behind which writhe evil and terrible things.

And Maker, standing there in front of her, his hand outstretched with the bloody mark of The Thing of Blades and Blood cut into his palm. His eyes dead, his expression unreadable, his command needing no words to be spoken.

"M-Maker," Colt's voice echoed oddly, somehow out of sync, in the tunnels. A cold terror shot up her spine as she heard the clattering of crustacean claws on stone just beyond her perception.

"You betrayed me." His voice was neutral, no blame or anger in it. There should've been. He had every right to be furious - she had betrayed him...

"I- I never agreed to this!" Colt hissed, fear taking any threat out of her statement. "You- I just needed a place to stay, and, and fell in with ya!"

"Traitor." His voice was neutral, but wrong. Tinny, metallic. She looked and felt her knees buckle under her. This was wrong, this wasn't a memory - it didn't happen like this. This... this was something else.

What stood before her in that damp hallway was what she was spared seeing the first time - Maker, half engulfed in grotesque demonic features as he was remade. He reached out, his voice steady but the human parts of his face pulled into a tortured, agonized expression that struck terror in Colt's heart.

"Betrayer." He said, his voice echoing through her mind even as she saw the corner of his mouth still able to move say 'help me'.

Colt couldn't stop herself. She wore her anguish on her face, too weary and scared to spare much in the way of thinking through things. Static tingle, the ghostfield, the lighting at her finger tips.

"I'm sorry, Maker...!" Colt fired lighting through her friend's chest, for a moment his one remaining eye gained a lifelike sheen and she fought back a sob as she watched it fade again.

Colt let her hand fall to her side, residual electricity arcing between her fingers. "I... didn't want to betray ya, Maker... It... This... We weren't supposed to come here. Not yet."

"COLT!"

Quellyn's voice was loud and shrill, more panicked than Colt had heard it before. The apothecary was practically whacking her back, blood spattered across her worried face.

"Mmngh, Quellyn?" Colt's voice sounded thready and weak, and she felt bone-tired. "Wha- what happened?"

"I don't know - whatever this was in you, it-" the apothecary swallowed roughly, a worried confusion in her eyes. "This had... grown veins it looked like. Somehow. Dug into you..."

"What? That - but it's just a piece of metal...?" Colt made to push herself up, but could barely move her arms.

"Colt, just what have you gotten yourself into?" Quellyn asked as she helped Colt sit up. "I've stitched you up, but... you're gonna want to see this."

The apothecary held up a mirror and Colt felt her blood run cold. Three thin blue-purple veins snaked from behind her left ear up across her jaw, across her temple towards her eye, and down the side of her neck. On instinct, she looked to the tray beside the table. A small triangular piece of metal with three tendrils of black veins snaking out, laying still in a metal tray filled with too much blood was all that remained.

"How...?"

"I don't know..." Quellyn sat across from Colt, hands and face still traced with the young woman's blood. "Colt... I can't help you any more than I have unless you tell me what's going on. I've never pulled a piece of metal sprouting veins outta someone before."

The young woman's expression tightened and she balled her hands into fists in the thin blanket Quellyn had laid across her shoulders. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but couldn't force words out.

"Colt." The old woman's voice was testier, now, impatient. "Tell me."

Colt pulled the blanket closer around her, her mouth pulled tight. Flashes of the faces of everyone she'd killed pushed into her mind. She shook her head.

"No, Quellyn. Please, I can't..." Colt tried to keep her voice steady, tried to sound at least certain, but she couldn't. She desperately wished she could tell Quellyn everything - confide in someone... normal. Someone who could maybe help her find a path without blood, blades, demons, and death all around it.

Colt looked up at Quellyn with tortured eyes and shook her head. "Quellyn, please... You know how some of these things are." She whispered, desperate. "The Weird... it... Sometimes, the less you know, the safer you are."

The furrow in Quellyn's brow deepened and she made a low, rumbling sound of dismay. But she still nodded, understanding the nature of this city and the people she treated.

"Well, then if you're not in a socializing mood, let's get you bandaged and out of here. I have others to stitch up today, after all." The old apothecary said, her tone clearly displeased but not angry. While the cold shoulder Quellyn gave as she helped Colt gingerly put her shirt back on would have been uncomfortable any other time, the young ghostwrangler was grateful for it this time.

The less she had to open her mouth, the easier it was to keep from spilling her guts or her tears.

The street out front of Quellyn's felt colder than Colt was used to. But from the dim, somewhat smoggy street, the apothecary's warm light felt reassuring.

Even if for just one more day, Colt could keep that dark part of Duskvol from reaching that sweet old woman. As long as Colt suffered in silence, alone, she couldn't betray anyone else.

That was worthwhile... Right?

A Whumper uses a spell to force Whumpee to face their darkest side. Maybe in the past Whumpee did something terrible (ie murdered someone) and they have to face their darkest side.

BONUS: Caretaker sees Whumpee panicking and helps them, but Whumpee refused to tell them what happened. Because what if Caretaker doesn't forgive them for their crime?

(Blame/thank @thequestingbunny for this idea hahahaha)

[steelandblood]

Hi!

This ask might come off as mean to some of your followers so I'd understand if you'd rather not engage, but: I'm so glad to finally come across femwhump that feels like a regular story. Thank you for sharing your works and the story behind your OCs!

I know femwhump tends to be a debated topic on Tumblr and personally, I don't have a preference for the Whumpee's gender. I just really like the idea of heroic characters finding solace in each other, then have one or two of them get sick or hurt and then receive comfort and care. That's all. But whenever people tag femwhump as such, I feel like the things I come across are a lot more fetishized and male-gaze-y than in gender-neutral or male whump. I'm not saying it never occurs in whump starring male characters, of course - it does too - but when it's ironically a lot easier to find well-written whumpy stories starring women if you avoid the "femwhump" tag rather than engage it in, then it's frustrating to remember just how sexualized violence against women is. I've been trying to find some fluffy femwhump sickfics too and SO MUCH of it tends to be kink content. I even wanted to write some sickfics on my own but I don't want them to be associated with kink.

(I've seen some good whump starring female Whumpees by users whumpy-bi and whump-or-whatever too, but it saddens me that stories that treat female whumpees as human beings are rare, even if the whumpee herself happens to be, idk, a gargoyle or whatever.)

Usually I agree with the sentiment of NOT king-shaming, but when 90% of the generic femwhump I come across is based on kink, it gets really tiring. I want to read about female characters that feel human, characters who feel like they're real people, and NOT a caricature of someone's sexual fantasies. Hollywood already does that a lot.

-Lapte 🥛

Hi! I completely understand you! As a woman who mostly only cares for female characters it's really frustrating how even some of the supposedly most generic no named characters things are written with males as the default.

The use of the tag is really a debatable topic, I use it only so It's easier to find my writing, because the general tag is so saturated with male characters. It really sucks that we have to have a specific tag for female characters, because the stories are so rare, while also trying to avoid the sexualized violence we have too much of in the real world already. I just want to project onto characters and imagine I'm being taken care of and being told I have worth as a person regardless of how useful I am, not read someone's sick violent sexual fantasy.

Thank you so much for appreciating my stories, it really means so much to me! (And I have more in the work that I should start posting once I'm back from vacation, in fact I'll continue writing right now as you really motivated me)

Ps

Whumpy-bi's stories ARE really great, I'm existed every time she posts

[febuwhump]

hi! i was curious if femwhump is open to creatives other than writers? like artists, video editors, gifmakers, etcetera?

febuwhump is open to all creativity. writing, art, videos, gifs, baking, lino printing, papercutting. literally anything you want.

admittedly, the bulk of what people create is writing, but i'd absolutely love to see some creations in different mediums

[whump-a-la-mode]

Taming The Tiger

I know I’ve been silent on here for a while, and there’s a lot of reasons for that (mostly college. oops). But! I’m back! And with a new series!

Taming The Tiger tells the story of Doctor Elizabeth Ada, an expert in the field of contemporary sentient artificial intelligence. Frequently at odds with the Committee for Ethics in Sentient Artificial Intelligence, Doctor Ada believes in the humanity of AI and that they deserve kindness and respect. The Ethics Committee, however, considers sentient AI to not be only on par with animals, but with dangerous ones. They believe that the only way to train an AI for service is through beating it into submission.

Desperate to get Doctor Ada off of their back, The Ethics Committee prepares an ultimatum: If she can take a broken, violent, aggressive AI and prepare it for service within three month’s time, they will accept the humanity of AI, and treat them humanely.

Doctor Ada accepts, only to be given an impossible task. Or, more so, an impossible person: ALEXS class service AI unit #189.

Will Doctor Ada’s methods work, or will Unit #189 prove unfixable?

Containing: Artificial intelligence whumpee, inhuman whumpee, female whumpee, defiant whumpee, pet whumpee, doctor caretaker, scientist caretaker, dehumanization, whumpee distrusting caretaker

Part One Coming Soon!

(I don’t draw much, but I wanted to make some designs for both major characters in this story)

Doctor Ada:

Unit #189:

[revui]

Hi!

I saw your contribution to the "unpopular opinions on whump" and can I just say that I agree so much omg?? Like the whumpee default always being by default male and white (I guess you could add light-skinned Asian) is something that I noticed too.

The irony is, I actually avoid reading the so-called femwhump, because it makes me a bit uncomfortable. Sex-based oppression, especially in the Middle East, medical misognyny and AFAB people making up the majority of victims/survivors of trafficking, class oppression and domestic violence is a harsh reality that femwhump reminds me of. I am also a bit uncomfortable with featuring a dark-skinned character in certain types of whump too, for OBVIOUS reasons - because it is still a lived reality.

But sometimes you just want to imagine your (not /always/ light-skinned) WLW or NB4A OTP or BroTP caring for each other when one has a fever, or talks about a traumatic childhood event or deep s**cidal ideation, or just falls off their bike, like a wholesome whump lite, so the white cismale default is a bit tiring

YES! also to my followers who have no idea i'm part of the whump community because i never post about it ever, hi welcome i like pain, this post got long so it's under a cut now

i totally get why people are more willing to default to "white man" whump when it comes to the more graphic and violent stuff because they fear either coming across as bigoted (especially if they're a less experienced writer) or they just personally don't want to think about racial violence & violence toward women; i won't fault the second reason and the first reason is just a matter of gaining experience until you feel like you can handle it without any implications.

so that's all basically fine in my book. but then like... when i'm scrolling and i see a generic character-A-character-B type sickfic prompt (and i love sickfic), there's no reason for the post to use he/him for the generic whumpee, and people really need to watch out for when they describe something in a manner that only works for light-skinned people; my default character in generic prompts happens to be an afro-asian dude whose skin straight up Can't do a lot of things in prompts the way they're described. i don't care what kind of whump other people write, but when a prompt blog fails to account for what i feel should be a pretty well-known fact (dark skinned people exist), it's immersion breaking and disappointing.

that theoretical blogger can write whatever they want when it comes to their own fiction, but maybe don't say "prompt" if it's not broadly applicable. i can't demand that prompt blogs account for the breadth of human creativity and make it so nothing in the prompt could contradict anyone's character design, that would be impossible. i just think people should be more mindful of what they write, especially since everyone here knows different skin colors exist.

hrngh long rant. tl;dr i get why violent whump would shy away from anyone but "white man" but all other forms of whump have no good reason to be as white dude-centric, and prompt blogs need to be more conscious of how they write their generic prompts

[veneataur]

Whumptober 1/31

prompt: "But now this room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in all the gaps."

fandom: original fiction

tw: femwhump

a/n: This is my first bit of writing in almost a year. I just haven't had the creative energy to write, but I knew I wanted to participate in Whumptober again. I enjoy the writing challenge every year. As I'm not currently obsessing over a fandom, I opted for original fiction this year. The story will develop more from this. Each installment won't necessarily pick up right where the last left off. Enjoy and let me know if you liked it.

The one thing she knows as consciousness returns is that everything burns. From the tips of her fingers and toes and the ends of her hair to the very core of her; she feels as though she’s been electrocuted. Her ears are ringing and each time she tries to open her eyes, everything is blurry and her head spins. She tries to curl onto her side but just breathing hurts.

Time is just pain and hoping, wishing that this is not forever.

It muddles her thoughts, swirls them tightly and fast so that she can’t sort them or catch more than a fleeting grasp.

It’s her ears that finally clear so that the calls of worry and fear from her brother finally register, faint though they are.

“June,” he calls, sounding like he’s yards away when she’s sure that he’s right beside her.

She tries to speak and croaks. Speaking is beyond her.

What happened to her? She was doing something and then she found herself alight with pain, even the basic of bodily functions setting fire to her nerves, to her blood, to the atoms that compose her.

“Yeah, okay. I’m going to call 911.”

An adrenaline spike gives her a jolt and she finds herself telling him no with a gasp.

“Yes, June. I know you don’t like them. I know your experience with them, but you can’t function. You almost choked and died on your own vomit. Would have if I hadn’t seen it coming and gotten you on your side. So, stop acting like mom and let me call them.”

Like mom?

Like mom?

Of course, that one idea was the single thought that her swirled brain would let her grasp. Stupid, Mav. He knew exactly how to get her. She’d curse him if she knew how but that was just an old family story about the women in her family. There certainly wasn’t anything magic about dear old mom.

“Yeah, you’re going to let me call them now?” Mav’s tone is short, but she hears the worry. They’re not twins or anything like that but sometimes it seems like they should be. Probably doesn’t hurt either that they’re the only sane ones in the family, which says something considering her own problems.

She makes herself nod. It’s a very deliberate and conscious effort and she hopes that it’s clear enough to him that that’s what she’s doing because moving her head anymore she knows will lead to such excruciating pain that she’s going to be unconscious when the paramedics arrive. She can’t have that. She wants some dignity for once when they come.

[rabbitdrabbles]

TW: violence, sex-based oppression, trafficking, non-con I'm scared to share it in the OG post of the "unpopular whump opinions" but my unpopular opinion about the overall preference of MALE whump, is that some people do it to escape the reality of misogyny/ AFAB discrimination (because let's face it, most transmen have grown up through female socialization too and have faced sex-based oppression even after coming out).

Like... torture, abuse, non-con, being trafficked... it is all a historical and modern-day reality for both sexes, but the primary perpetrators of terrorism, wars, domestic violence and sex crimes and most leaders of trafficking rings have been historically cis men. In the p*rn industry alone, it has been estimated that more than half of the women in it have been trafficked, whereas he percentage of men who have been trafficked is about 17% (still too high if you ask me). In today's day and age, it's still mostly AFAB people who suffer domestic violence and sex crimes, just check out some videos from Yemen or Afghanistan. I truly feel uncomfortable when I read the so-called fem-whump, because even though it's not a real person getting hurt, real names, real people, real news headlines, real cases of young girls having gone missing, being kidnapped and brutally murdered pops up into my mind - cases from yesterday, last week, last month, last true crime podcast, a friend, another friend's sister - they all pop into my mind and reading 'lady whump' is like a continuous exposure to reality. I want to read whump to escape reality, not to re-immerse myself in it. I'm not a fan of child whump either, for a similar reason.

Writing male/ male-on-male whump is like taking back control from the patriarchy.

I'm not saying that EVERYONE feels that way but on a subconscious level, I'm willing to bet at least some people do.

For the record: this is all just my personal feelings on the matter. If anyone who reads this enjoys femwhump, as long as you don't harm or wish harm upon real women, you do you.

hello!! respectfully, I’m not sure what post this is referring to, you might be directing this at the wrong person? unless I’m mistaken in which case someone correct me please.

I think you’re absolutely correct though!! I will be entirely frank I think I simply enjoy male whump because I find it hot, but I’ve heard and heartily agree with this perspective too even if it’s not the main reason why I personally enjoy it. I also definitely understand why one might get super turned off by femwhump as it so harshly mirrors what women/AFABs face so often in reality, it’s also a squick of mine but I think for different reasons; either way I completely resonate with you. frankly I’m surprised this opinion (more of a fact tbh) isn’t more well known within the whump community? like I’ve seen people complain about why there’s such a lack of fem whump and well idk I kinda thought the reason was obvious haha. not dissing anyone who likes it ofc I kinda just figured everyone knew femwhump would stay in the minority for the exact reasons you described, evidently not though so thank you for putting it in words!!!

edit: found the post and my reblog, I’m honored you chose me to tell your opinion to haha and sorry I took so long to respond!!

[random-fandom-whump]

The Mummy Returns (2001) (✚)

"You're strong. You're gonna be ok."

[findmeinthefallair]

Seeing Elisa seemingly taking her place, standing next to Xanatos, was more of a threat for Fox - than Goliath, Xanatos or Elisa being physical threats to her. Love that there's the underlying concept of "what's scariest to us is our own selves" here

[justplainwhump]

I'm desperately searching for content, so please drop me your recommendations for (spicy) lady whump, everyone!

Here's some of mine: @sableflynn with basically everything she writes; Out Unseen more spicy, but her Katia series is also wonderful. @deluxewhump with her box babe Belle (the last position on this list). @whump-tr0pes with Vera and David&Nia.

I've also recently discovered @whump-ventures, @actress4him and @whumpopology s lady whump content (not nsfw (?) but very nice!), which I definitely have to look into more!

(And to add on this, I myself write lady whump as well, one-shots as well as some things that could get series (all 18+): [Dany], [Casino], [Marissa], [Alicia], many of which are collabs with @whumping-newbie))

Special callout for the subgenre of spicy lady whump with lady whumper, which I only found at @deluxewhump (see above) and write myself to keep the content coming (Marissa/Lydia). 

If you could recommend more of any of this, I'd probably die of happy.

[no-whump-on-main]

Apartment 307-11 (Bruises)

TWs: Gore, brief mention of emeto, creepy and unstable whumper

Morning didn’t come for a long time. Elora’s body clung to sleep as it fought desperately to even begin to heal the severe wounds that had been inflicted the day prior. Merely surviving was beginning to become much harder of a task then she’d ever hoped it would be; waiting around for someone to save her wasn’t quite working out, and neither was saving herself. She was having to fight tooth and nail just to live, which was both exhausting and incredibly depressing.

She finally opened her eyes as she felt a hand roughly shaking her shoulder, jerking her body around until she begrudgingly awoke. She pushed stray hairs away from her face and tried to roll over, but the man’s voice was booming with its volume and closeness to her ear.

“Elora. Get up. It’s almost two o’clock.”

She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that if he was going to torture her, she had every right to sleep however much she wanted to, but she knew it was irresponsible to be causing any trouble in the state she was in. Her body had withstood so much abuse in the days she’d been there already, she feared that without time to heal, anything else major could easily tip her over the edge of life and death, make her pass out and not wake back up.

And hell if she was ready to die.

“I’m awake,” she said in a dull, monotone voice, her eyes still adjusting to the light streaming into the room through the opened blinds. She sat herself up, slowly, cringing at the pain of her ankle dragging along the sheets.

“Good,” she heard him mutter, and she resisted the urge to scowl at him. The last thing she cared about was his approval, and yet here she was, walking on eggshells to avoid setting him off. What a mess she’d gotten herself into.

“I’m not going to do anything today,” he told her. For some odd reason, it wasn’t very reassuring. “I’m not stupid. I’m not trying to kill you.”

Her lips moved much faster than her mind. “Gee, thanks.”

He shot her a glare. It made her skin crawl, just the pure intensity in his eyes.

“Watch it.”

She did. She didn’t want to, but something about his tone and expression made her deeply uncomfortable to the point that she feared doing anything but precisely what he wanted.

“You wanna take a shower? You need it,” he said plainly. God, he couldn’t even extend a kind gesture without being a douche about it. Elora wanted to spit back that she wondered why she needed a shower. Maybe it was the layers of dried blood coating her skin, or the dirt from being mercilessly dragged along the ground the night of her kidnapping. She kept her words to herself, though, responding only with a nod.

She could already imagine it, the warm water running down her body, washing away the blood and the sweat and the dirt and the fear she was certain he could smell. How she craved it, the simple pleasure of being clean-something she’d already lost.

“Okay. Up we go, then.” The man lifted her up from the bed, an arm tucked beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She hated every minute of being so close to him. His breath smelled like cigarettes and his shirt was scratchy. Every bit of her body screamed at her to get out of his grip, but she was stuck, without another choice in the matter. A bitter horror fell upon her at the realization that this was her new reality whenever she had to move around the apartment. It wasn’t like she could get up and walk around. The persistent throbbing in her ankle was a painful reminder of that.

At the very least, the walk was short. He just carried her into the master bathroom and set her down in the tub. It was slightly roomier than the one she was usually kept in, but clearly much more used. A couple bottles of mens’ 3-and-1 wash lined the ledges and the floor was damp.

“Might be weird not standing up, but you’re smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Elora nodded, but the man just stood there, leaving the air stale with the silence in the room. She looked up at him for a moment, trying to gauge what he was doing, what he was thinking. She hoped he’d leave. While she knew he probably had a difficult time trusting her alone after the mishap yesterday, privacy was still a much-appreciated commodity. He stared at the wall for a second, not looking her in the eyes, before muttering about grabbing something and walking out. Elora froze, fearing he was going to bring back some awful instrument of torture, but instead, he merely returned with a pile of items in his arms. An old, worn towel and washcloth made the base, with a haphazardly-folded set of clothes atop it, and faded, half-used bottles of drugstore shampoo, conditioner, and body wash over that.

He set the stack down next to her, on the floor by the tub. “Yell when you’re done,” he told her. And that was it. He left.

There was no catch, no earning her prize or cruel tricks. He just left her alone to shower. It was like he felt bad. He should feel bad. But she shook the thought of vengeance from her mind, deciding to just focus on the mercy she’d been shown. She knew she should savor it while she had it, as she doubted it would last long.

Awkwardly twisting her body to avoid using her broken hand, she grabbed the bottles and set them on the ledge of the bathtub, then carefully removed her clothes, grimacing as she had to stretch the cuts lining her arms and drag fabric along her broken ankle. Once she finished, she finally turned on the shower, tensing as cold water rained upon her, but practically melting once it ran warm. It was soothing, though it did slightly sting the wounds it hit. Still, the benefits far outweighed the harm and she shut her eyes to fully take in the comfort, wishing she could stay right in this moment until she was found. Enveloped by the warmth, the man only a passing thought in her mind.

She began with the shampoo, taking her time to work it into her scalp, washing away the dirt, blood, and oil that had built up over the last few days. It felt so nice to be clean, to be free of the filth coating her body. She savored every moment as she washed and conditioned her hair, then took painstaking attention and care as she scrubbed her body with the washcloth, carefully avoiding or only gently dabbing at the wounds littering her body. And even when she had long been done, she remained on the floor of the tub, letting the hot water soothe her aching body as she stared ahead at the wall. She feared that taking too long, though, would make the man suspicious-or worse, angry. So, despite not wanting to and not having a clue when she’d be given this privilege again, she turned off the water and began to dry off with the towel. She didn’t want to get the clothes she’d been given all wet, so she awkwardly and rather maneuvered herself up to sit on the side of the tub. She quickly found that getting dressed was just as much of a struggle as getting undressed-especially as her skin was still damp. Pulling on the plain undershirt and blue sweatpants earned quite a few hisses of pain, and she was more than relieved when the task was over.

There was a sort of longing ache in her heart at the fact that the clothes weren’t hers. It was just another thing that had been stripped from her, another bit taken away. At the very least, though, they were clean. It didn’t seem like they’d been washed, just taken straight from a cheap bulk package. That was probably what they were. Elora didn’t mind, though. At the very least, they were comfortable, and clean. Both fit her relatively well, too, though the legs of the pants were short on her.

She was about to mournfully call for the man as she’d been instructed to do when she looked over herself, just one last time, and found her staring down at the massive bruises covering her fingers and ankle. She’d been preoccupied with getting clean earlier, so her eyes had just skimmed over them, but now that she took the time to really look, she was horrified. They were so much clearer now that the blood was washed away, looking almost cartoonish as she stared in disbelief. Deep shades of blue and purple wrapped her entire ankle joint as it stuck painfully out to the right. She knew that she should set it, but she didn’t have the slightest clue how, and it was far too severe to heal magically. All she could do was look on in shock at how misshapen it looked, how it almost seemed like a watercolor painting, colors coating and speckling the skin. Her fingers, too, were a horrific sight, curled in on themselves, swollen and multicolored. She couldn’t look away from her mangled hand and foot, feeling sick at how mortifyingly intense they were. She wanted to vomit at the mere sight of them, at the thought of the logistics. How many surgeries would it take to fix this when she got out?

If she got out.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and she abandoned the thought of calling for the man at all, just gawking at her injuries, letting the severity seep in, and bawling. Time slipped by quickly and soon she’d been in the bathroom for almost an hour, which prompted the man to come in and check on her. He knocked on the door and called her name, and she startled, her shoulders trembling. She didn’t respond, just sat there until he burst in, swung the door open himself. Their eyes locked and he saw the redness around her eyes, the puffiness of her cheeks. His brow furrowed for a moment. He hadn’t done anything wrong to her, what was her deal? But his gaze followed hers back to her broken limbs, and he gave a knowing sigh.

An awful guilt crept up in him and his expression was stone cold.

“I’m not a bad person, Elora.” His voice was firm, but thick, with a sense of sadness to it. Elora looked up at him from her spot perched on the side of the tub, shocked by his sudden entrance. Her eyes were still teary, threatening to spill more at any moment.

“I’m not.”

The girl still didn’t say a word and Clyde felt his guilt start to turn to anger. “Stop looking at me like that. Like a-like a sad fucking puppy.”

Elora’s bottom lip shook. She sensed it, his rage. She knew that, no matter what she did now, things weren’t going to end well for her. They never did, when he got mad like this.

“I’m not t-trying to-”

“Shut up,” he shouted, and her mouth suddenly closed, her eyes still wide as they stared up at him.

“I’m not a bad person,” he affirmed. “I did what I had to. You-you never fucking listen.”

Elora had no clue what to say, what to do, so she merely nodded in agreement. Sure. Whatever he wanted to believe. Whatever he needed to hear to not hurt her even more when she was already-when she couldn’t handle any more.

The man advanced towards her and she nearly screamed in pure terror. She wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He bent over and gripped her chin and she inhaled sharply, eyes watery.

“Say it,” he seethed. “Say it. I’m not a bad person.”

She was forced to look in his eyes, their faces just inches apart as he jerked her chin up. Her voice shook as she spoke. “You’re-you’re not a b-b-bad person.” A sharp inhale ended her sentence, petrified that it wasn’t right. That it wouldn’t be enough.”

He released her chin and she felt relief flood her for all but a second before he shoved her off of the ledge of the tub. She landed flat on her back on the tile floor, the air knocked out of her lungs by the force of the fall. She wheezed and tried to sit up, but he was upon her in a second, kneeling on her chest with his hands around her throat to restrict her breathing even further.

“Say it like you mean it,” he insisted. There was nothing but anger in his eyes.

Gasping and sputtering, Elora wheezed, “You’re not a bad person!” Her tone was desperate. She felt like she was dying. But that was all the man needed to hear. He eased off of her and stood, brushed himself off, then simply picked her up from the ground and slung her over a shoulder, a far cry from the gentle way he’d carried her to the bathroom in the first place.

He was grinning. Relief washed over him. A cool, calm feeling.

“You’re right, Elora. I’m not. I’m not a bad person.”

tags: @exploringspaceinpyjamas @all-whumped-out