#formal whumpee

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 113

"Whumpee?", Caretaker loomed over the recliner. They knew something was wrong at an instant. Despite gloating over the win of getting that piece furniture, Caretaker hasn't even witnessed Whumpee sitting in it once. Come to think of it, do they even sit down?

Whumpee, still head to toe in their daily formal wear, slept away uncomfortably, face red and drenched in sweat.

"Whumpee.", Caretaker prodded at first, before turning to jostling, letting out a nervous laugh at Whumpee's limpness. "C'mon, you of all people know it's not funny to play around like this... Whumpee?"

[forwhump]

a/n; 😬

tw/cw: rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, feminization, humiliation, kidnapping, imprisonment, sexual violence, sex slavery

creepy whumper, intimate whumper

Into sheets damp with tears and saliva, Wren mumbles, worn, “what?” 

Point laughs softly against his shoulder and his breath is too warm against Wren’s prickly, oversensitive skin. “I said,” he murmurs again, “I have a surprise for you, cowgirl.” 

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it’s stuck where it is, hard to breathe around. He’s been crying for hours. “No,” he mumbles against the damp sheets. “Please.” 

“It’s a nice surprise,” Point tells his skin, and Wren can’t help that he shudders with cold sweat. He’s thumbing slowly along the back of Wren’s bare thigh with one hand. “You’ll like it.” 

Point surprises Wren a lot; Wren’s never liked it. “No,” he mumbles, thick with crying, hoarse the same. “Why?” 

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Point murmurs. “You’ve been a good girl.” 

He hadn’t, is the thing. Worse than being imprisoned underground is being imprisoned above it. Sunlight will seep in sometimes through cracks in the boards over the windows and it makes Wren hysterical like nothing else ever has. Point is still inside him, just like Point had woken up inside him, because Point had slept, the last however many days, inside him; Wren’s being punished for biting him. 

Bite is mild. Wren had taken a chunk out of him and he can’t say he doesn’t still feel pretty good about it. He can’t say it was worth it, either. 

He already has his fingers twisted in the damp sheets and he’s so pale his knuckles are already white as he pulls at them a little tighter. The sheets are filthy, always wet in some places, dried and hardened in others. They hadn’t been cleaned or changed once since they got here and a lot of horrible things had been done to Wren in this bed. Burning them is probably the only way to salvage them, at this point. 

Sometimes, Wren is despondent, and he always thinks that that’s it, and he’s finally checked out, he’s finally lost his mind. Most of the time, Wren is still scared. 

It’s exhausting, being scared all the time. He gets mad about it, sometimes, in the rare chunks of time he gets by himself, when Point leaves and Wren gets to take a deep breath, he’s mad at himself about it. How does he possibly still have it in him to be scared? 

But he is. All the time. And he’s always in pain. He’s so pale the skin of his hands is translucent. He’s always crying. 

That’s a wonder, too. How does he still have it in him to cry? There aren't always tears, he’s usually too dehydrated, but he’s always crying in some capacity. He doesn’t remember ever crying this much when he was underground — but there was a reason for that. It was a big reason. 

Stupidly, Wren still finds himself waiting for him. He knows better, he knows better, but he also knows that if Silas could get to him, he would, and that makes him stupid. There’s always a bit of him that’s waiting for Silas to kick the door down and get him the fuck out of here. Silas was big, he was massive, and the district was so far underground it was always a little dark. Wren knows Silas’ silhouette almost as well as he knows his face and he finds himself searching the shadows for it at night, lying awake in the dark, usually crying to himself. He’s always disappointed. He knows better, and he’s still disappointed. 

He sniffles, soft and wet, against the sticky sheets. “Darren,” he tries softly. 

Point kisses his shoulder, too wet. His grip is white knuckled, bruising, but his mouth is unbearably soft. It makes Wren’s skin crawl so hard he nearly shudders again with it. “You’ll like it, baby,” he tells him softly. Sucking gently on Wren’s shoulder, he starts to rock against him, pushing further inside him, digging his fingertips into his skin and Wren makes a miserable noise against the sheets, a noise that makes Point coo. “I promise,” he repeats, softer, slower. 

Wren’s fingers flex in the awful sheets and he chokes out, “please.” 

Point hums softly against his skin and it makes Wren’s fingers twitch. Too gently, too slowly, he mouths up Wren’s bare shoulder, the side of his throat, rocking into him slowly, holding his thighs apart so hard he’d split open the sensitive flesh with his fingernails. Wren’s always crying; he’s always bleeding, too. 

Sometimes, strange things will happen, he’ll faint or hallucinate or something of the like. He’s lightheaded a lot. He can’t stand for very long at a time. He’s either shivering cold or burning with fever, never anything in between. When he bruises, which is often, he bruises too severely. He’s sure it’s the blood loss catching up with him. 

“Relax,” Point murmurs against the side of his throat, against the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “Trust me.”

Wren pushes his face into the sheets, already sticky, and tries to muffle the sound as he sobs, but he can’t control the way his shoulders hitch with it. Point likes when he cries, likes to do everything he can to make him cry, and Wren would love to not give him the satisfaction. Sometimes, most of the time, he just can’t help it. 

Point bites down on the side of his throat and Wren sobs again, shudders with it. He’s pulled closer to Point by the waist as he cries, grinding into him too slowly, too deeply. Too softly, he says, “you feel so good.” 

Wren thinks, I want to watch you choke, but he doesn’t say that. He thinks a lot of things he never says. What he says is, “I’m sorry,” and, “Darren, please.” 

Against his skin, Point laughs, softly and in good humour. “You’ve been so good for me, cowgirl,” he murmurs. “You feel so good for me. I wanted to do something nice for you.” 

“I don’t want it,” Wren pleads with the sheets. 

“You will,” Point murmurs. He skirts his fingers slowly, tauntingly across Wren’s skin as he reaches between his thighs. As Wren jerks away, he pulls him closer, holds him tighter. Wren bruises. Bleeds. “You gotta have more faith in me, sugar,” he says, and Wren can feel too much of his teeth against the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “I’ve been taking good care of you.” 

For a long time, Wren’s been acutely aware that there’s something really, deeply fucked up about Point, but it wasn’t until they got above ground that he’s realizing just how deep it runs. Sometimes it’s like nothing’s changed and they’re still underground; sometimes, he’ll get frenzied and kill the neighbours; sometimes, it’s like living in a dollhouse. When Wren’s allowed to wear clothes, he isn’t allowed to choose the clothes he wears. If he doesn’t braid his hair in the stupid pigtails Point likes, his hands are tied and Point will plait it for him with a boot to the back of his neck. How long does he have to keep living like this? Hasn’t he given enough? 

“Let me take care of you,” Point croons softly. 

Wren has to drop dead at some point. That’s what gets him through. At some point, his body has to give out — it has to. How much can one body take? For how long? 

“Darren,” he begs. 

Point grunts and Wren can feel the reverberations of it against his back, which makes him wretch. Point hushes him, nosing along his hairline, mouthing too gently over his crawling skin. Being raped is never less than miserable, but there’s something especially skin crawling about Point moving slowly, kissing him gently. There’s been times it’s actually made Wren vomit, but that usually doesn’t make Point blink. 

“Relax, cowgirl,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna use you, and then we’re gonna get dressed, and I’m gonna take you outside, baby. We’re gonna get you some fresh air.” 

There was a time, maybe not even all that long ago, that Wren was desperate to get outside again, to get fresh air. Since they got to this place, everything that’s happened to Wren outside of the house is even more horrible than things that happen to him within it. He doesn’t feel safe anywhere, but he feels safer in the house. It’s familiar, now, at least.

“Darren,” he begs again. 

“Be a good girl,” Point tells his skin. “Don’t make me change my mind.” 

Wren sobs softly against the mattress. One of his feet is tangled in the sheets, has been for the last day and a half. He hasn’t been allowed to leave the bed since the bite. He really doesn’t want to know what’s waiting for him once he finally does. Sometimes he has it in him to fight — sometimes he bites. Sometimes he’s a wounded deer. 

He clings to the sheets and he cries, pathetic. When Point comes, he bites down hard on the back of Wren’s neck and Wren can feel the way that he groans all the way down his spine and into the small of his back. He chokes out a sob and he can feel it just the same. 

“Good girl,” Point coos softly. He ghosts his fingers slowly up and down Wren’s stomach with one hand, gripping bruises into his bleeding hip with the other. “There’s a good girl.” When he pulls out, he does it with a lingering kiss to Wren’s hairline and a noise that makes his skin crawl, something low, something that Wren can feel too much of against his back. He swats him hard on the ass as he climbs out of bed and Wren doesn’t lift his head to watch him go. 

Face pressed into the sheets, he sniffles miserably to himself and listens to Point’s footsteps creak across the hardwood of the floor. The door to the bathroom opens, closes. Water is turned on. 

Wren waits until he hears it running before he pulls the sheets up, over his head, and covers his face with both hands as he cries. It’s fucked up, right, and he knows it is, because there was a time not even all that long ago that all Wren wanted in the world was to get out of the district, to see the sunlight, to breathe air not even entirely fresh, just not recycled or filtered. New air. Now, all Wren wants in the world is to go back. 

He doesn’t want to die by himself and he doesn’t want to die in this house, not so close to freedom. The district was miserable and there was never any denying that, it was an inhumanly awful way to live, but here it isn’t any better. Here, it’s even more relentless. Here, Wren is by himself. 

Point will leave sometimes, does things he doesn’t tell Wren about and that Wren doesn’t ask him about, but he doesn’t leave often and he doesn’t leave for long. His attention is constant and relentless. He’s always there, and he’s always touching. Often it hurts. Still, Wren is the loneliest he’s ever been. And fuck if he there’s even a waking second that he isn’t thinking about Silas. 

Missing him is constant. Sure, there’s probably an element of being trauma bonded, but Silas had done something to Wren, had changed him intrinsically, and not only will Wren never be the same without him he’s not sure how he's supposed to keep doing this without him at all. It was always Silas — at least he gets to come back to Silas, at least Silas will come to his rescue. Worse than missing a limb is missing Silas. Wren could lose a lot of himself and he’d figure it out, he’d manage; he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without Silas. He’s not sure how long he can. 

He thinks of Silas pretty constantly when Point is with him but it hurts worse when he’s alone. It hurts deeper when there’s no other hurt to distract him. It’s hard not to feel bad for himself. 

He cries into his hands and he thinks about Silas, because he’s always thinking about Silas. Even if he didn’t save him, he wishes he was here. He wishes he was with him, just to keep him company, maybe to hold his hand. He’s so tired of being sad by himself. 

He’s so busy wallowing he doesn’t hear Point come back. When he does, he rips the sheet away, flashing Wren his teeth as he tosses an armful of clothing at him. A handful of clothing, realistically. Wren can’t begin to guess where the clothes Point gives him came from or come from still; there are things that are obviously his favourites, things he makes Wren wear more often, but it seems like he has an endless amount of costumes at his disposal. And that’s what they are, really, they’re costumes, sometimes the kind literally made for children, sometimes the pornstar or stripper equivalent. They’re all small and humiliating. 

It’s a handful of tulle and gingham he throws at him now, which is unsurprising. It’s Point’s favourite costume; he likes the dress so much that he’s actually cleaned it. It’s short, frilly, humiliating. There’s a little white apron stitched into the waist. 

Point’s wearing denim and plaid because Point’s been wearing a lot of denim and plaid. Before now, Wren had never seen him in civilians clothes — he isn’t sure if Point’s always worn a lot of plaid, maybe, or if he’s in costume too, dressing up to match the little farm girl dresses he makes Wren wear. If he’s maybe playing farmer. If he’s just doing it to make fun of Wren, which is more likely. 

“Get dressed,” he says, and clicks his tongue. He doesn’t look much like a farmer, if that’s what he’s going for. His beard’s been growing out since he’d kidnapped Wren, and the dark hair and the plaid make him look a bit like a lumberjack — like the axe wielding maniac from a slasher movie. 

“I don’t want to,” Wren says, wet. 

He raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t asking. Get dressed.” 

“Darren,” he says softly. 

Impatient, he snaps his fingers. “Let’s go, cowgirl.” 

Sniffling softly, Wren rolls onto back, leaning hard on his hands as he pushes himself up. Point watches him. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is so imposing that Wren can’t even pretend he’s not there. He pulls on the dress, short and demeaning, barely long enough to actually be a dress. Blood and semen track down the inside of his thighs. 

Almost before he’s pulled the layers of skirts all the way down, Point’s clicking his tongue again. “Come here.” 

Reluctantly, Wren goes. He can’t walk very fast or very long anymore. He always has kind of a limp. It always makes him think of Silas, as most things often do. 

Point leads him through the house with a hand curled around the back of his neck. He doesn’t usually let Wren get far without him, and if he leaves him on his own he ties him down first, some way or another. Wren makes it as far as the back door before he panics and grabs the doorframe. “Darren.” 

Point squeezes the back of his neck, threatening, but he shows Wren his teeth again, something that Wren suspects is supposed to be a smile. “Let’s go.” He cradles Wren’s face with his other hand, thumbing something from the corner of his mouth, blood or old lipstick. “Don’t make me regret doing something nice for you, now.” 

“Please,” Wren says softly, white knuckles against the doorframe. 

Point’s only ever been able to pretend to be patient for so long. There’s always something simmering under the surface of his dead eyes, something impatient and self gratifying and cruel. He pushes Wren back against the doorframe so quickly Wren can’t do anything to stop it, he pushes him so hard the back of Wren’s head collides with the doorframe with a force that makes him nauseous. 

He pins him there with a hand around his throat. Instinctively, Wren curls a hand around his wrist, and Point’s mouth stretches, a grotesque mockery of a grin. He ghosts his other hand slowly up the inside of Wren’s sticky leg, beneath his skirt, stroking slowly along the sensitive flesh between his thighs. When Wren jerks, another instinct, trying to flinch away, Point pins him harder against the doorframe. Pushes his fingers inside him. Doesn’t even let Wren look away. 

He chokes out a sound around Point’s hand, something small and pathetic, something breathless. 

Point grins a little wider. He’s leaned in too close and Wren can feel his breath against his face. It could be psychological, it’s probably psychological, but he would swear his breath always smells like gunmetal. 

He’s big, too. Wren doesn’t ever forget, not really, but he doesn’t always remember quite how much. He’s prone a lot. Point always tells him he does all his best work on his back, and that’s how he spends a lot of his time. It kind of scales the difference between them down to Point’s crushing weight. 

He isn’t big like Silas had been big, not inhumanly, but he’s a big guy all the same. He towers over Wren. He has to lean down to breathe gunmetal into his face. 

Wren chokes out another sound, a plea that doesn’t make it, and pushes his other hand against Point’s wide chest. With a huff like laughter, Point leans even closer, pressing his face to the side of Wren’s head. He’s inescapable like this; he’s everywhere. 

His fingers move inside Wren and when Wren tries to flinch away, he holds his thighs apart with his knee, he traps him against the doorway with his weight. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against his hair, and it makes Wren gag. It always does. “And you’re all mine.” His hand flexes around Wren’s throat. He’s everywhere. Every one of Wren’s senses is Point. “Always so wet for me,” he murmurs, and he murmurs it in this slow, kind of syrupy voice that makes Wren’s skin crawl. “Always make the prettiest noises. It made me want to do something nice for you.” His voice doesn’t change, but his fingers flex around Wren’s throat again, threatening, as he murmurs, “but you’re being awfully ungrateful already, cowgirl. It’s making me want to change my mind.” 

There was a very short chunk of time, fresh out of high school, that Wren not only got to be a human being, but his own person. He’d been an artist for a bit, before he had to move back home, a real one. He had a girlfriend. Julie. 

She was scary. A tattoo artist with a heavy European accent, she smoked imported cigarettes and she had a thing about true crime, sometimes to a degree that was a little worrying. Her background noise of choice was always the same true crime podcast, somebody with a hypnotic sort of voice talking about the worst things human beings have ever done to each other. It was morbid and sad, obviously, but almost in the way that really well done horror movies and morbid and sad — it isn’t real life. Those kinds of things don’t really happen to people. 

Except when they do. He wonders what the true crime podcasters would say about him if they knew. He wonders if anybody will ever know what really happened to him. Realistically, probably not. Realistically, Wren’s probably gonna die in this farmhouse, god knows where, and Point will probably fuck his body before he disposes of it and then he’ll never talk about him again. Wren’s gonna die and nobody but Point will ever know what really happened to him. 

I’m sorry, he tries to say, but Point is strangling him and all he manages is a weak, whimpering sort of noise. 

“Are you going to be good?” Point murmurs against his hair. 

As best he can, Wren nods. 

“Grateful?” He asks softly. 

Wren nods again. 

Point’s hand leaves his throat so suddenly that the rush of air into his lungs makes Wren choke. He tips his head back against the doorframe, trying to steady his breathing and gasping with it. Trying to blink the blur from his vision, he isn’t watching Point but he recognizes the sound of his belt buckle. He’s started wearing big, noisey belt buckles. Part of his flannel costume. The sound makes the hair prickle at the back of Wren’s neck and he tries to lift his head, to lean away. Point is still everywhere. 

“Not again,” Wren begs, hoarse. 

Point leans back just far enough that Wren can see his face, still hovering in his personal space. He raises his eyebrows. Low and dangerous, he murmurs, “what did I just say?” 

Wren hiccups softly. He doesn’t know when he started crying or if he ever really stopped in the first place. He tries to turn his face away but Point slides his fingers out of him to grab his jaw with his slick hand. 

“I want you to keep your eyes on me,” he says. 

Wren sniffles miserably. 

Point shows him his teeth again, a mockery of a smile, as he lifts him up and off his feet, shoving the layers of his skirts up and around his waist. “Say please.” 

Wren doesn’t mean to, but he sobs. 

Lining himself up, he repeats, “say please.” 

“Darren —“ 

“Don’t use my name,” he says, flat. He’s looking too closely at Wren and there’s still nothing human in his eyes at all. “Say please.” 

Wren sniffles again, even more miserable. “Please,” he whispers. 

Without looking away, he pushes inside him again, slow and almost taunting. When Wren’s eyes close, flinching in pain, Point grabs him by the face again, pressing his fingertips too hard into his jaw. 

“Ow,” Wren breathes, and he doesn’t mean to but Point doesn’t like it either way, cracking his head sharply back against the doorframe. 

“If I wanted you to hurt, girl,” he says, “you would. Be good.” 

Wren blinks quickly, kind of dazed, bracing himself belatedly as Point punches a series of choked, breathless noises out of him. There isn’t anything slow or gentle about it this time; it hurts. It hurts in the frantic, sort of manic way it does sometimes, the way it hurts when Point really wants him to hurt, brutal and frenzied. 

A cry is knocked out of somewhere high in his chest. He braces a hand against Point, trying to push him away without really meaning to and Point quickly gathers both his wrists in one hand. “Ungrateful,” he spits. “What did I say?” 

Wren bites his tongue and cries out again, anyway, kind of strangled. 

Through his teeth, Point says, “try harder. Say thank you.” 

Wren makes another pained sound, something wet, something he doesn’t mean. “Thank you,” he tries, but it comes out as a sob and Point lifts his hands up and over his head, pins them to the doorframe, just high enough that the strain of it echoes pain through Wren’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he breathes, trying again. “Thank you.” 

Point coos, squeezing him around the wrists. “There’s a good girl.” He ducks his head, mouthing along the bruises blooming along Wren’s jaw and Wren finally screws his eyes shut, chest hitching as he sobs. Point groans and too much of Wren rumbles with it. “There’s a good girl,” he murmurs again. 

It’s fast and it’s brutal and it’s meant to hurt but that doesn’t mean it’s over quickly. When Point’s finally done with him, when Wren’s finally placed back on his feet, his legs give out. He can’t hold himself up, and he would’ve hit the ground if Point hadn’t caught him quickly around the waist, lifting Wren up and over his shoulder. 

Hurting and dazed, Wren twists a hand into the back of Point’s flannel shirt for balance and tries to stop crying. Can’t. 

He’s carried outside, across a stretch of the land behind the house, to a barn Wren had known was there but had never been allowed to get close enough to see. Holding him up, across his shoulder with one hand, Point unlocks the doors with more effort than Wren would have expected; he punches a series of numbers into a keypad, he swipes a keycard, he presses his thumbprint. He pushes the doors open, and he takes the time to close and secure them behind him before he places Wren on his feet. 

Wren turns, heart in his throat. On the outside, it’s just a barn. On the inside, it’s a bunker. It looks so much like something from the district, armed and steel, that Wren reacts to it viscerally and takes a step back, right into Point’s chest. 

He wraps an arm around Wren quickly, heaving him off his feet again, too easy. 

“Darren,” Wren breathes, frantic. Concrete had been poured to cover the floor and Wren is carried across it, to a length of chain and a collar bolted into the centre of the barn. Wren does everything he can to scramble away but Point is so much bigger than he is. “Darren!” 

“I have some work to do,” Point explains. He drops Wren to the concrete, unceremonious, and pins him there with a foot to his chest as he leans down and pulls the collar around his throat, pulling it just a little too tightly to be comfortable. “I need you to stay out of the way while I get it done.” 

“No,” Wren breathes, and tries to sit up. 

Point boots him onto his back so hard it knocks the wind out of him and without missing a beat says, “I made it look like home. I thought it would make you more comfortable.” Above Wren, his grin is a leer. “I thought you would like it.” Wren makes a weak noise, trying to take a breath in. Point says, “I did it for you. Do you like it?” 

“Don’t leave me here,” Wren breathes. Almost worse than being with Point is waiting for him, so tense that sometimes he could cry with it, sometimes it could make him sick. Concrete and steel, the inside of the barn is already cold, uninsulated. So secure, it’s dark. Quiet. 

Point clicks his tongue at him, unimpressed. “What do I keep telling you about being ungrateful?” He peels his foot slowly off Wren’s chest. There’s a dirty boot print left behind on his dress. “If you’re a good girl while I’m not here,” he says, “I’ll let you back in the house when I’m finished.” 

“Darren —“ 

“If I find out you were a bad girl,” he says, “it will be very painful for you. Y’hear?” 

“Darren —“ 

But he leaves. Wren is shivering, still crying, too dehydrated for tears but still hitching with it, and Point leaves, closing the armoured doors behind him. Not for the first time, he leaves Wren alone in the dark. 

[defire]

Living weapon PTSD

Content: punishment aftermath, scars

(stoic whumpee vibes)

Sees someone pick up a long thin object, immediately winces and takes a rigid, chin-up posture like a soldier in line

Or (if severely triggered) yanks off their shirt in one fluid motion, turns and faces the wall, bracing their hands against it for support

If they see a weapon they watch it, and whoever has it, like a hawk

Trying to figure out who's in charge no matter what situation they're in. Using a formal tone with them even if they're TRYING to just be normal

Tensing up around people that act/speak like whumper. They don't want to embarrass themselves by flinching every five seconds so they're just going to flex every muscle until they are gone.

Self aware of their stiff posture. Sitting down and forcing themselves to relax into a couch and put on a fake smile

Caretaker seeing their scars and covering their mouth.

In that event, whumpee flushing and covering them because they're still ashamed of "earning" the punishments that left those marks

Or if they're from combat, smiling and telling the story proudly because they made their owner proud that day and they weren't punished

Trying to explain what happened and then suddenly going quiet

Answering questions like they're being interrogated by a superior

Refusing to speak because they're flashing back to a time they were interrogated in an enemy compound

[catnykit]

I NEED MORE I NEED THE VIVISECTION I NEEEEEED THIIIIIIIIIS YESSSS

Experiment

Despite my lack of motivation, I suddenly had a burst of ideas that led me to write this.

CW: medical whump, surgeon whumper, knives, blood, testing

Information may not be medically accurate.

Whumpee woke up to a bright light. Their eyelids were heavy, making it difficult for their eyes to open, and even when they opened, their vision was blurred. Whumpee wasted a few seconds until they saw a silhouette of someone wearing a surgical mask and gloves positioning a large white lamp over their body. Their eyes wandered more, bringing more information to their disoriented head. Their arms and legs, tied to a hard and uncomfortable stretcher, but rigorously clean.

The entire room was dull and uninteresting in color, like a hospital usually is. Whumpee tried to speak and finally realized they were gagged. Their eyes returned to the person they had seen before, who now stood in front of a small table with some metal trays that displayed some materials and tools.

Whumper pressed a button on a small recorder.

“Test log, section 32. This time, the procedure will rely on a live specimen."

He took a rolled-up piece of paper and held it out in front of him to get a better look. The position in which Whumper lifted the paper allowed Whumpee to peek at the contents. It was blue paper with several frighteningly detailed drawings of human organs. There were post-its with notes written in different colored pens.

Whumpee got scared and started struggling, trying to free themselves. Whumper seemed to have heard but ignored it.

"I will carry out the test paying attention to signs of previous results. The steps will be the same."

Whumpee stopped squirming and paid attention.

"First, an opening of three cuts is made, from the belly to the chest of the specimen."

Whumpee's eyes widened.

"Then, the layers of flesh lower down are cut and the edges are pulled back, exposing the organs."

Whumpee saw the experiment drawings on the paper and began to struggle again. Their gag-muffled screams reached vaguely on the voice recorder as background music for the diary.

“Then, extraction begins. First, the kidneys. Then, the liver... And so on. With the specimen alive, I can collect more results regarding pain resistance and lifespan. There will be no anesthesia. I'm looking forward to the experiment unfolding."

He rolled up the paper and set it aside on the table. He picked up a small scalpel and a handful of gauze and turned around, approaching Whumpee. The "specimen" became even more desperate, trying so hard to free themselves from the restraints that their wrists and ankles were getting bruised.

Whumper looked into the eyes of his living experiment. Whumpee looked back with teary eyes. They prayed that Whumper would be sympathetic and give up, or kill them outright. They prayed that they would receive empathy. However, Whumper maintained his neutral expression and said:

"A skittish and nervous specimen. The accelerated heart rate will promote blood circulation, facilitating the procedure."

Whumpee helplessly watched the scalpel approach their body.

"Starting incisions.”

Whumper began by cutting Whumpee's belly horizontally, holding the scalpel with his hand at a slight angle, letting the instrument slide beneath the surface of the skin, breaking through a layer of flesh. Whumpee screamed as loud as they could under the gag. Whumper proceeded with the cut hellishly slowly, holding the piece of gauze with his other hand, stopping the excess blood from leaking from the wound. When he was finished, Whumpee could breathe for a few seconds, albeit with difficulty.

“The specimen's blood is slightly darkened. I'm still waiting for the results of the blood samples I collected, but I believe the specimen has some disease. The skin sits comfortably on the bones, and the flesh is as soft and fragile as paper. Anyway." Continuing incision.”

He began a vertical slash at the same agonizing speed. After a while, Whumpee lost the strength to scream. It was already difficult to breathe with all the pain and anxiety, and the gag made their situation even worse.

Whumper stopped the second cut halfway and took a look at Whumpee. He set the scalpel and gauze aside and took a small flashlight from the instrument tray.

"Relapse. Paleness, heavy breathing." He held Whumpee's eyelids and flashed the light directly into their eyes, one at a time. "Dilated pupils. The specimen is not very resistant. It may not hold until the end of the tests. I will suture the incisions already made and stop this section at that. I will place the specimen in a saline supplement and give it a few days to recover briefly.”

Whumpee lost their strength and passed out. Whumper returned to the table and replaced the lantern. He took off his gloves and mask, letting out a long sigh.

He pressed another button on the voice recorder.

"Section 32, summary. The specimen has a low tolerance for pain and blood loss. I will focus on strengthening it until the results of the blood tests arrive and finally proceed with the main experiment. End of recording."

He turned back to Whumpee. He ran his hand through the victim's dehydrated hair.

“You're the best test subject I've ever had.”

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🖤 Protective Caretaker Trying to Hold Back 🖤

Maybe Caretaker doesn’t know whumpee that well, or they have a formal working relationship with strict standards. Maybe whumpee is an ex pr an enemy or really dislikes them for some reason. But for one reason or another, Caretaker is the last person whumpee would turn to for help.

Yet Caretaker can SEE that something’s wrong, and it’s driving them insane with worry. They can’t eat. They can’t sleep. They’re pacing around in protective fury. But they have to play it cool.

Caretaker trying to keep a straight face while talking to whumpee and not show pity. The whole time, their fists are clenched in sympathetic rage, nails biting into their palms.

Does whumpee notice? Maybe they react with annoyance at Caretaker’s concern, confirming that it’s not their place. Or maybe they seem to want to connect, but stop themselves with a muttered, “Forget it, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”

Caretaker talking to whumpee’s friends/teammates and trying desperately not to ask how they’re doing.

Caretaker noticing a bruise or a strange, dead look in whumpee’s eyes, or even just whumpee being absent. They can’t think about anything else for the rest of the day.

In the mirror: “It’s none of my business, it’s none of my business, it’s none of my business…”

Caretaker encountering Whumper and trying not to attack on sight.

After a tense conversation with Whumper and/or whumpee in which they all pretend nothing is wrong, Caretaker goes on the other room and starting vomiting, crying, screaming into a pillow, etc.

“Oh yeah, didn’t you hear?” And they tell Caretaker something terrible that happened to whumpee. “I’m sure they’re fine though. Wait, why are you shaking?”

The day after Caretaker learns what happened in full, their room is trashed. They’ve torn apart everything they could get their hands on in an effort to quell the vengeful, protective anger. But it wasn’t enough. The weapons are gone, and Caretaker is nowhere to be found.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Torture / Interrogation ideas for a more formal (ish) setting? Thinking like fantasy military captive setting, no past connection between whumpee and whumper, mostly job focused

captivity settings my beloved <3

The Backdrop:

- whumpee is a high ranking officer, and Whumper wants to use them in propaganda. The well being of the soldiers they were captured with hangs in the balance.

- following that, whumpee is a foot soldier who has the misfortune of being used as leverage. Maybe their commanding officer is just too stubborn, letting them suffer "for the greater good".

- whumpee is a deep cover spy who's been betrayed by a double agent. Whumper wants to make an example of them to deter any future espionage.

- whumpee is a civilian, but the whumper is dead certain they're lying when they say they don't know anything, and keeps trying to force information out of them.

- whumpee does know something, and it's very specific and tangible: Whumper wants them to recreate a weapon, input codes, feed misinformation to their own side while whumper watches... Anything that can quickly be seen through if they try to sabotage it or lie.

- whumper is convinced that "torture always works" and is resolved to keep putting the pressure on a captured soldier whumpee. One of these days, they're going to crack, right?

The Methods:

- every day the whumpee refuses to do something, whumper will cut off a piece of them

- whumper has psychic or magical technology on hand that will prevent whumpee from lying; all they need to do is force them to break their silence

- whumper has psychic or magical technology that can read whumpee's mind, but it's incredibly painful and invasive

- whumper is able to resuscitate the dead. They kill whumpee horribly, over and over again, trying to disorient them and weaken their resolve

- whumpee has to make propaganda appearances while captive, so whumper can't leave any marks. They instead use drugging, asphyxiation, and confined spaces to torment them

- whumper invades whumpee's personal space; touching them, calling them pet names, mocking any tears or reactions

- whumper has healing magic or technology, which they use to cover up any traces of what they've done after brutalizing whumpee. Their bosses don't exactly approve of their methods

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Medical Conference

hi guys um. i cant stop writing destroyer. i swear ill figure out a system to organize these “bonus” chapters soon i promise i promise

delta is eighteen in this but the chapter delves into abuse he experienced when he was a child so cw for that

(Content: living weapon whumpee, lab whump, medical whump, put on display, dehumanization, conditioning, noncon drugging, needles, non-consensual/nonsexual nudity, noncon touching, physical abuse, emotional whump, angst, child abuse, child death mention, parental whump?)

~

“I forgot, sir,” Delta tried weakly. He knew as soon as he said it that he should’ve just kept quiet.

“No, you didn’t. You’re going to lie about it as well?” Dr.Martino shut down the attempt, focusing his attention back to the device.

Delta laid down unmoving against the steel table as the scanner searched over him. It gave him mild electric shocks each time it passed. Of course, he hadn’t been looking forward to the diagnostic tests. But he hadn’t been trying to get out of it entirely. That wouldn’t have worked. He only wanted more time to psych himself up for it. Too long, apparently. He’d had to be collected for it. It’d been a bad note to start on.

The rest of the exam went on in silence, without anymore mention of his avoidance. As Delta redressed, he thought he might’ve been off the hook for it. Dr.Martino was fumbling though his desk drawers like he’d already left. 

He produced two unopened packs of pencils from inside the desk. Delta deflated a little bit. 

Delta took the pencils and arranged them in two rows along the floor, lined up flush against one another. Gingerly, he kneeled down on top of them.

“Hands behind your back,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair.

Already there. He knew the drill. He lowered his head, silently counting. No longer than twenty minutes, usually. No fewer than ten.

When he looked up again, Martino was leaning back against the table, flipping through a folder.

“The ISCEM conference is coming up in a month,” he said offhandedly, as if this would mean something to him.

“Okay?” Delta answered, more in confusion than anything else. He hadn’t meant for it to be disrespectful. 

Nevertheless, Dr.Martino’s shoe pressed down against his calf, driving the pencils further into his skin. 

“Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself. The pressure disappeared. The pain stayed where it was.

“You were probably too young to remember the last one, weren’t you?” Dr.Martino sighed.

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t really think about it. He was pretty distracted by the numbness traveling down his legs.

“Well, put it on your calendar. Don’t want you forgetting again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He didn’t have a calendar.

~

“Mention the steady-state thing we discussed. I have files on it, I - is it too late to make a copy? I will. And if you could just please pass along a message for me, I would be ever so grateful,” Simon went on, fumbling through his own briefcase, trying to give what he could. Dr.Martino took the reports from him, flipping them around to see the equations he’d scribbled onto the back.

“You’re not coming? Sir?” Delta added the “sir” on as an afterthought, conscious of the doctor’s presence. Simon himself rarely demanded such formalities.

“Don’t interrupt,” Dr.Martino snapped, more tense than usual. But Simon obliged him, stepping a little closer.

“Not my scene.” Simon patted his head. It was soft, but Delta reflexively flinched away from any hands that drew too near to his face. 

Something on the desk beeped. The transit had rafted up. 

Delta held his wrists up easily as Martino presented the cuffs. They were psychic tech, meant to restrict his powers more than the collar already did. Presumably some kind of safety measure. He felt his world going flat as they clicked into place, all his spatial awareness reduced to a single field of view. The effect was extremely disorienting. He nearly fell over getting off of the table.

~

He’d mostly evened out by the time they’d gotten to the hotel. He sat idly against the chair he’d been placed in, watching the doctor unpack. Everything in the room was the same shade of beige. 

It seemed like they should’ve been able to go. Martino abruptly produce a vial from the bag. Delta recognized it as a sedative. He inserted the syringe into it, drawing it back up.

“I’ll behave, sir,” Delta offered. He eyed the needle warily; he’d usually have been given something in the way of warning.

Martino shook his head. He took a firm grip of Delta’s arm.

“Believe me, this is for your own good.”

Delta tensed his arm up, holding still as the needle entered him. Something cold shot into his veins. It took a long time for the chamber to empty. 

~

It hit him before they even reached the elevator. He clung to Martino’s arm, needing something to brace himself against, however briefly. Martino assured him he wouldn’t have to stand for long. They moved backstage at the panel. Delta nearly collapsed into the fold-up chair.

The cuffs were briefly removed as he was given the medical gown to wear. His hands moved slower than he would’ve liked, but he was able to put it on. It tied along the front, leaving much of his chest exposed.

Dr.Martino took a minute to make sure it was fitted correctly. He cursed, noticing for the first time the visible boot print against the side of Delta’s ribs. 

“Great. They’re going to think I beat you.”

You do beat me, Delta thought. Not as much as he used to. Not as much as Paris. But Martino still hit him. 

The doctor felt over the bruise with his hand, reigniting the pain. Delta winced. It was recent — still tender. The sedative helped a bit. All his thoughts were coming to him in a haze.

There was nothing that could be done to cover it, so apparently they were just going to ignore it. The cuffs came back on around his wrists. He led Delta out onto the platform regardless, sitting him up against the stool. It was had a back to it, luckily. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay upright without it. He’d been trained enough not to slouch or to look so outwardly high, but it was definitely a struggle to maintain neutrality. He kept his head down. It was the safest, the easiest to maintain for a long period. People gradually filed in. Though he was used to being put on display, the sterility and lack of decorum in this new space made the whole thing feel all the more jarring. It all felt far away, though.

His eyes closed without meaning to. When he tuned back in, Dr.Martino was droning on. He recognized some of the words. He would’ve recognized more if he wasn’t drugged. It was a talk about internal power generation. Conduits. There was a hand on his shoulder. Delta stood up from the chair. The gown was pulled down a bit from his shoulders.

Martino pressed the multimeter to his collarbones, watching the number climb until it broke. He pulled it away before it could burn up completely. He pressed a thin disk up against Delta’s chest, where it held there. It was some kind of controller. A thin arc of electricity emerged from it without any conscious intention on his part. More appeared, each of them branching away from his body like a plasma ball. The effect was immediate; that familiar fear crept into the eyes of the audience. 

It cut all at once. The disk was removed. Delta sat back down on the chair, pulling the gown back up over himself. 

The lights darkened. Behind him, a clip show began to play. He didn’t need to look back. He’d seen it plenty of times. Different explosions, annihilations, destructions. All his own work. He could recount each of them to the second. It played for a long time.

For some reason, they clapped when it was over.

~

“Sorry — do you mind if I look at it?” 

Delta opened his eyes again, sensing the it in question. He tensed up. 

He hated being touched. The moderator stripped the gown back again. He felt the electric pulse still going about Delta’s clavicle. His hands traveled around the collar. 

“I’m biomedical by trade,” the man explained, tapping at the gold, “This is custom, yes? When was it made?”

“The model’s about five years old. It gets updated about once a year.”

“Incredible. I see some scarring, though.”

Delta shivered as the fingers traced the burn scars by his neck, a bit on his trapezius. They were in the shape of a Lichtenberg figure.

“That seems non-optimal?”

“Those actually predate the collar. They’re a natural result of it overextending itself during an exercise. The restrictor works as a stopgap to prevent that kind of burnout.”

Though he’d expected it, it still jarred Delta just how easily Martino slipped back into calling him it.

Another scientist approached. She slid up to Martino, shaking his hand eagerly.

“Oh, darling.” He embraced her. She grinned, readjusting her jacket as they pulled away.

“Danny, it’s been ages. How are the girls?” Her nails clicked together.

Danny. The girls. Martino actually had a family. Not that he ever saw them. He had daughters. They’d been kids, the one and only time Delta had ever met them. They had to be in their twenties by now. 

“Brats, the lot of them. They’re smart, though. Smarter than I was at their age.”

“Well, that’s not saying much.”

Delta was not surprised when her hands traveled onto him. He barely flinched this time. But he hadn’t expected her to speak to him.

“Oh, and look at you. You’re all grown up now, huh?” 

She gripped his chin in between her fingers, studying his face. The touch wasn’t harsh, nor was it gentle.

“You probably don’t remember me.”

That was correct. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he could find no memories to attach to it.

“He’s a bit distant at the moment. You’ll have to forgive him,” Martino answered for him.

She released her grip, turning her attention back to the doctor. Even in his current state, it didn’t take him long to put it together. She’d been one of the teachers at the Institute. He wondered how many of them were wandering around out there now. Most of them. Dr.Martino had been the only one to retain some semblance of his position. All the other administrators had been cast away just the same as the students.

He had forgotten nearly every one of their names.

~

Martino packed up the last of the day’s display materials, arranging all of it back into the suitcase. It’d been a success, as far as these things go. He’d revealed all he could without breaching the terms of his contract. All the real science was under a strict NDA. It was nice to catch up with some colleagues, though. It was healthy to be off of a spaceship every once in a while.

He tugged Delta’s sleeve, pulling him up from the plastic chair. He took a minute to undo the cuffs; he’d thought they were an excessive measure to begin with and they had prevented any real show of power. Delta rubbed idly at the marks they had left there.

They made their way back up to the hotel room. The drug had not yet worn off; Delta still stumbled a bit when he walked. He’d redressed himself in a thick hoodie, trying to keep out the chill from the overactive AC or perhaps just trying to hide. 

The door opened. Martino dropped his suitcase onto the bed. Presumably out of habit, Delta lowered himself to the floor, kneeling there. Waiting for instructions, as if he could have followed them. Martino scoffed. 

“You can sit on the bed. I booked a double room for a reason.”

He watched the whole minute it took for his words to sink in. The way it took even longer for Delta to actually rise, blearily climbing up onto the mattress. His hands gripped searchingly across the blanket, pulling up the edges like he needed something to hold onto.

Martino ignored him. He moved to the far side of the room and opened the door to the balcony. The city skyline was clearly visible just down the road. The lights from it shone brighter than the stars from space. Martino produced one of the foreign cigarettes from its packet. The ember burned in the dark night. It was all quiet.

“What was I like when I was little?”

He turned to look at Delta. The kid was drugged out of his mind. He might’ve given him too much.

Dr.Martino took a long drag. He rarely smoked, so used to the endless sterility that he would not so much as dirty the air. But tonight was a rare night.

“What were you like?” He ashed the cigarette, turning back to look at the night skyline. “I don’t remember.”

Delta looked down, disappointed. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Martino sighed, losing the battle.

“…You were quiet. Same as you are now. You mostly kept to yourself.”

He gave no visible reaction.

“You didn’t get along so well with the other kids,” Martino admitted, some disdain entering his voice. 

Delta looked up. His expression was totally blank.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked.

It was manipulative, and self-pitying in a way that did not flatter him. Martino put the cigarette out. He stepped back into the room.

Delta shrank back a bit. The doctor looked him over. His eyes had dimmed some, no doubt due to the sedative. His hands were unbloodied. Just looking at him, no one would have know what he’d done. Martino remembered the sound of bones snapping and the bodies out in the yard. He remembered the expression Delta had worn the first time he’d killed — as blank and unfeeling as the one he wore now. He did hate him, he supposed. He’d never been his favorite. All his favorites had been buried a long time ago.

He didn’t say that. He remembered his lines — and he cursed himself for ever diverging from them, even for a second. He would correct it now.

“There is no you.”

Delta opened his mouth as if to object, then thought better of it. Good.

“No more talking tonight,” Martino said.

Delta nodded, laying down onto the mattress. He fell asleep with all the lights on.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @pigeonwhumps

[whumpsoda]

Would it be all right to write about Adrastus entrancing a new student to the study group? Asking for a friend, who is me

@oliversrarebooks

WOHEO Masterlist This one’s a long one! Very excited about it :3

cw: lady whumpee, hypnosis, brainwashing, vampire whumper, kidnapping

———————————————————————

Beatrice swallowed, carefully absorbing the sight lied out in front of her.

She had finally caved, finally told Mary she would accept the excessive, repeated invite of hers. Even after taking eerie notice of the effects this group seemed to have on students, she bad still given a yes. Strangely, no one was seemingly as skeptical as her.

It was odd how her friend’s eyes glazed over with an unfocused touch just talking about the event, a dazed grin spreading over her lips. We’re always open to newbies, she had said, practically drooling imagining this so-called study group, only causing more of a stir of wariness inside of Beatrice’ belly.

Though, at the same time, Beatrice had agreed to go. Even with aching suspicion tugging at her mind, the need to study urged her to take the slightest of a brave chance, just to see what this was all about. Maybe to find if her caution was warranted. Dearly, she hoped it wasn’t it.

At the very least, Bea could not say it wasn’t cozy.

Blankets, pillows, bean bags, and stuffed toys littered the carpet, now light pink and fuzzy after the infamous librarian had arranged for the old stuff to be replaced. The smell of lavender sifted through the tight air, filling her nose and unknowingly calming her pounding heart.

Students filed in behind her, frames drooping and movement gradually slowing almost as soon as they entered. Beatrice shivered with uncertain unease. It was all too much not to raise concern.

“We meet right over there.” Mary told her, placing a hand to her shoulder. That same, chilling smile was already plastered back across her face, churning about Bea’s belly. “But I’ll take you to meet sir, first.”

Sir? Mary hadn’t called them that before.

“It’s alright-,” she didn’t like how almost the whole room shifted her head, and how it flipped her stomach in knots. Beatrice was already prepared to leave, and quickly.

“Why, hello there! Is this our newest recruit?” Someone called, pulling the pair’s attention.

The librarian, with their luxurious outfit- far too fancy for a school setting, that was for sure- sauntered up, sweet yet sly. They must have taken swift notice of Beatrice’ heed. “I’m just kidding, dear. What might your name be, darling?”

They pressed a gentle finger to her forearm, a touch that scattered her thoughts with fog in a quick instant. “Oh, I was just, um… um… leaving.” Was she really leaving? Her thoughts were scrambled inside of her head, hard to reach while she was so focused on the ginger rub of fingers over her skin.

“Her name… ‘s Beatrice, sir…” Mary whispered, keened toward their immense aura that seemingly swirled the two right in. 

“Beatrice? What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Mind if I call you Bea?” Her stomach tensed. No one called her that except close friends. Too distracted by the flutter of a compliment and the brush of a thumb over her skin, words to reply drifted far out of reach. Luckily, the librarian did not waste time waiting for a response. “Wonderful! I have a hunch you may already know, but my name is Adrastus. You, my dear, may call me sir.”

“H- huh…?” Such a title seemed much too formal. Although, it seemed everyone was calling them that… it couldn’t be that weird. Could it?

Adrastus didn’t allow her a moment to dwell. “Come along, darling, let me introduce you to the group!” Pulling her along with their slender, smooth arms, she stumbled behind their graceful stride to where the numerous other students had gathered.

Bea swayed in her spot as they stopped, unable to keep herself afloat and dizzy as the room spun below her. Was she sick? She just knew she should have left.

“Hello, my loves!” The librarian- no, sir- sung aloud, catching the attention of the already hazy group. “This is our newest guest, Bea. Say, hello Bea!”

The group repeated their greeting in a neat fashion, although voices dropped lazy and slow. Most students were already tucking in for sleep as it seemed, sprawled over blankets and one another. Unusual for what was advertised as a meet up meant for studying.

Adrastus guided her slowly drooping frame to an open seat made from a pile of lush pillowing, one she plopped right into. Bea sighed in contentment as she allowed the fabric to swallow her whole.

Soon enough multiple other drowsy minded students rolled over her limbs, trapping her in place with discomfort. She then groaned in displeasure.

Leaning down and whispering, Adrastus set a string of her hair back into place. “How are you doing, love? Comfortable?”

She wriggled around the others, bodies confining her and skin touching that of strangers. “I, um… I’m not… sure…” Beatrice muttered, anxiety crawling it’s way around her insides.

“That’s okay, that’s okay. Just relax for me.” They stroked over her supple skin, pushing her further back and gumming up her head.

“But… when ‘re we gonna study…?”

“In a bit, baby, soon here now. Just take a deep breath and close your eyes.”

Although weakly, Beatrice resisted as they tried to shut her eyes for her. “Don’t… like… leave…”

“You are a bit anxious, aren’t you?”

Their words spun her in circles, her cobweb filled brains unable to keep up with their swift speech. “I guess… um…”

“How adorable. That’s just fine. I can work with that.” Adrastus muttered, more so to themself than her.

“‘M… con… fused…”

“Sure you are. But everything is just fine, okay? Just get all nice and sleepy, letting it wash over you all nicely.” 

“Wash… over…?” The wave of their nimble fingers down her frame was freakishly heavenly, a sensation so beautiful she’d never before felt. Beatrice fell limp almost instantly, so overwhelmed by the magic of the whole situation.

“Yes, dear. Let it take hold of your little body, sending you numb and reeling into slumber. Sir will take good care of you while you sleep.”

“Don’t… can’t…”

“Oh, yes you can,” They corrected. “Good girls like you need sleep. I just know you’re so tired, your whole body is reaching for slumber.”

“Sleep… good…”

“Yes, dear. Sleep.” 

Beatrice had no clue how long she was out, dancing through dreams and listening to the sweet voice of the librarian at the flick of their wrist. She merely gave up her will for however long proved fit, leaving her mind well devoid of thought.

It was… fine. Once she finally awoke Bea had dutifully said her goodbyes to her sir, stumbling out from the building as drowsy and hazy as everyone else. Sure, she barely retained a moment of the night, but with her head still buzzing with slumber she must have just fallen asleep. 

How silly of her to have been so afraid. Nothing was off in the slightest.

…

Beatrice promised herself that this time, she would study. She would not fall to her body’s need for slumber, and would in turn remember the night in full. Very much unlike the first visit to the library.

She had neatly arranged her things in the midst of sprawled out, snoring students, burning with roaring determination. Even if, oddly, no one else seemed to be doing much studying, Beatrice was going to make the most out of the chance to do so.

But, in a strange turn of events,

Beatrice was crying.

Her cheeks flushed vibrant red with embarrassment, eagerly wiping tears away with her wrists.

She had no clue as to what had come over her. Why the work was so painfully difficult, why her head was clouding and gradually slowing, leaving her mind muddled in confusion. Why students flopped around her, touching all over absentmindedly. Why all she wanted to do was sleep. 

A hand snuck down her neck, brushing it’s way over her shivering spine. She twitched in surprise before melting under the contact. “Oh dear, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t, um, don’t…” Beatrice turned to face the glimmering face of the librarian, eyes blurring with moisture. “So confused!”

“Oh, baby. Tell me what’s bothering you.” They pouted, curling up beside her with concern. Beatrice yearned for their aid, for their pity, and her heart fluttered at the notion of her sir paying her specific attention.

“Don’t, um, so confused… uncomfy…!” Furling into a ball she exclaimed, expression twisting and muscles tightening.

“Well we don’t want that, do we?”

“Nooo…” Bea whined, wracking her brain for words that were becoming difficult to reach. “Work, uh, hard… ‘m head hurt…”

“Of course, dear. Your little mind is too distracted by the difficulties of school!” All the while they spoke arms slithered around the distraught woman, hoisting her into their lap and swaddling her sweet. Almost in likeness to a parent and their beloved child. Beatrice instinctively accepted the warmth of their hold. “You must relax, love.”

“But… gotta study…” she reached lazily for her work, arms far too restricted by the librarian’s hold to complete the act. Though, she didn’t really mind, the embrace growing warm and splendidly comfortable.

Maybe… 

Maybe she could relax… 

Just for a moment. The wash of calm that gently rolled over her was to great to ignore, just enough of a push to force her into acceptance.

“Goodness, you are determined, aren’t you? Even while all confused and sad. How cute.” They brushed her face with their sleeve, tickling her with pleasure and wiping her tear stained cheeks. “Come on over, my loves. Gather around, let’s help our dear Bea, here.” Their voice raised, calling out to the other dazed out students.

Soon enough strangers were crawling their way over, slow and sleepy, eyes all unfocused and glassy. They collapsed in a heap around the two, all smiles and content.

“Don’t, um, I don’t… like it…” Beatrice mumbled, twisting closer to the chest of the librarian and away from the others. Still, she couldn’t ignore the turmoil of seein

Pressing a peck to her forehead, their hands rubbed tender circles over her flesh as they whispered. “Yes you do. It feels so very delightful to be surrounded by your fellow classmates, heads empty and smiles wide.”

“Oh… delightful…” she mewled, eyes glazing over like all the others.

“You want to come back. To take the time to dance around in this bliss with all of your little companions, and to see your sir.”

“Want… come back… sir…”

“Good girl. So good. Now take this time to calm, and get some well needed sleep.”

“Calm… sleep…” She could do that for her sir. So very deeply she wanted to obey, and obey Beatrice would.

Settling her back into the heap of sleeping students, Adrastus hummed a quiet whisper. “Sweet dreams, baby. Sir will be right by your side for as long as you need.”

…

Every night that Bea returned to see her sir proved so much better than the last. The first few were so very magical and mind melting, the thoughts of floating through such pleasant clouds her sir planted through her mind were all she could think about during the day. Beatrice was obsessed.

Because they were her sir. She was their favorite, and everyone knew it, Bea was sure. 

She was always picked first for blood draws, always welcomed with more soft touches and kind coos than everyone else, even getting the longest of her own private study sessions with her sir.

Bea was sure she was the favorite, and favorites cannot stop coming back for more. Even if her grades were dropping and her mind was gradually coming to a halt, the thought of distancing herself from the magnificent librarian never dared to enter her mind.

Just like now. Slumped against her sir’s leg, drooling over their calf from the corner of a strung up, dopey smile. Sir’s fingers twirled nimbly through her hair, gentle and kind, just like them. She shivered with blissful sensations.

“Alright, dear,” they started, breaking through the silence of the library, words hushed and light, fingers receding from her locks. “It's sleepy time, okay?”

Lazily Bea clawed for their touch to return, puppy eyes twisting with puzzled hurt. “B- but… like looking at sir…”

“I know, I know, but I need to get up for just a moment.” They climbed to their feet, beginning their journey away from Beatrice, an action that did not sit well with her. She did not want her master to leave, detested it. Especially if the reason was to go dote on anyone else that wasn’t her.

“But… but…”

Adrastus patted her head lightly, bouncing the worries from her brain with a swish of bliss. “I’ll be right back, I know you are quick to miss me. Do not worry your pretty little head.” They gave her that gentle, soft smile they always did, that fluttered the endeared butterflies in her tummy.

Bea melted into that of a puddle of smiling sludge, too distracted by her sir’s spell to think much at all. “Okay… sir…” 

“Good girl.” They nodded, heels clacking off as they ventured to who knows where, Bea’s cheek making its soft descent into the carpet.

Soon enough her sir returned to Bea’s delight, only, her satisfaction contorted in distress as she took notice of the dazed out student trailing behind them, hand in hand. His head craned to the side, ready to donate blood. 

“Sir! Nooo!” She squealed on instinct, crawling desperately to claw at their ankles in the attempt to cease their betrayal. How could they do that to her? She was right there, so ready to donate or do anything her sir so wished, and they chose someone else? 

Adrastus tisked, face firming. “Shhhh, hush, dear. So loud for someone supposedly asleep.” They cupped her cheek, so delicate it almost distracted her from the pain of their treacherous actions.

“Why… ‘re, why’re you taking him…?” She whispered, anger twisting to pitiful hurt, as she leaned right into the touch of their soft skin.

They booped her nose. “That’s none of your concern, baby.”

“But you love me! Me! Take… me!” They had to! She wanted so badly to be of use to them, to be loved by them more than anyone else. They had to see that, didn’t they?

“Calm down. Sleep, now.” They commanded, stroking down her skull in a wash of drowsiness, so immense she could never have resisted, no matter how much distress she was in.

She whined, loud enough to stir a few others from sleep. “But… but mine…”

“Remember what I told you?”

Her sir’s words flew up and out of her memory, plastering to the walls of her brain and filling her up with mind boggling sensations of goodness. “Master… Bea is, um, master’s favorite… al… always…” the repetition reassured her, feeding her back into the trance of her sir’s. “Good… good girls ‘re… um… good girls listen to sir…”

Their face softened, gentle and tender and so very loving it as they settled her head back to the floor. She had forgotten completely what had been so horrifying she had made such a dreadful scene, and with oncoming unconsciousness did not have the mind to think about it. “Remember that always  my dear. Meet me after group, okay? I’ll grant your every little wish then.”

“Oh… ‘kay…” Bea nuzzled into the lush rug below her, purring with warmth. “Love you… sir…”

With one more pat to the head Adrastus huffed a grin, licking her ears with a sweet whisper. “Of course you do.”

…

“But… but I don’t want you to leave…” Bea whimpered, raw with confusion and anguish.

“I know, baby, I know.” Her sir soothed, petting her kindly as she curled in their lap. 

“You can’t… please…!” How could they leave her, just like that? How could she possibly live without them? Even their blissful magic proved futile against the pain of their horrid news.

“Oh, darling I’ll be back. It’s just for a few weeks. A simple vacation.”

Bea whined, guttural and grating, an animalistic noise that gnawed at her throat, so overcome by the desperation of needing her sir to get by. “But… I can’t… without you…!” She could never survive without their pleasant touches and words. How had she ever done so before?

They chuckled condescendingly, still sweet to their pet’s ears. “Yes, love, I know. So helpless without master, you are.” 

“Mhm, mhm!” Bea nodded, so very eager for her sir to understand. 

“Pitiful, really, but so very cute.” They scratched below her chin, sending her reeling back into the void of mindlessness for a mere moment. 

They just had to see how helpless she was without them! They had to know how dearly she depended on them! “S… stay…?” She whispered, meek and timid.

“I told you, pumpkin, I can’t.”

“Please! Please!” She squealed, clawing at their exquisite dress. They clutched her wrists, rubbing over her skin with those wondrously heart pulsing thumbs of theirs.

“I have business to attend to, darling, I simply cannot. Tell you what though, my dear,” They started, their endearing grin creeping its way over their lips, melting Bea into a puddle of adoration. “How would you like to accompany me?”

Bea’s heart practically stopped, words choking in a bubble in her throat. “R- really? Really?”

They smiled, satisfied with her unbridled excitement. “Yes, love. Doesn’t that just sound wonderful? Meet with me right after group, and I’ll take you home. To your new home.” Her sir cupped her chin, mixing her mind with heaven and glee.

“Oh, sir, I, I love you… sir…” Bea mewled, blindly prepared to start a new life with her sir. What could ever be better?

“I know, dear. I love you too.”

“Love… you… can’t wait…”

They pulled her tight, hugging in an embrace of love and care. “Me neither.” Bea had no clue what was yet to come.

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @mis-graves @3-2-whump

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[3-2-whump]

The Party

<prev next>

TW/CW: public humiliation, pet whump (I think?), objectification, whumpee on display, whumpee being talked about as if not even there, light microagression towards whumpee (?) This is fun to tag.

By now, Khaled should’ve been used to hearing the faint sound of metallic clinking as he walked. His owner used to bind his feet in cuffs for nearly a year straight when he had first come into his home, leaving just enough chain in between to walk comfortably and not an inch more. That was nearly six years ago, yet even hearing the faint shk shk shk of shimmering chains whenever he moved mentally transported him back to boyhood, when he was scared, shy, and didn’t know what was going on or what was expected of him. Much like tonight.

“Stand up straight, pick up your feet, and don’t look so glum,” Thomas chided.

Easy for you to say, Khaled thought as he eyed his fully dressed owner in envy. The mafia boss was dressed in a three-piece suit as usual, though he had changed into one of the more expensive ones for tonight’s function, a charity ball of some sort. The garnets set into his golden cufflinks glowed like freshly shed blood under the foyer’s lights as he gestured at him.

Khaled wore gold and garnets of his own, except they were…everywhere. They were in his earrings, in his nose ring, studded like pomegranate seeds in his necklace, acting as connection points in the harness-like body chain draped over his bare chest and torso –he was covered in them and still felt naked. A sheer and silky fabric tied unskillfully around his waist matched the color of the sanguine jewels and provided the only shred of modesty in this obscene outfit. Khaled prayed it would not fall off, but he did not favor his chances.

At least I get a break from that chastity cage, he consoled himself.

He straightened his posture and adopted a more neutral expression. His master smiled. “Good boy,” he said, and yet the usual praise did not ease the nervous churning in his gut. The golden bracelets on his wrists, matching the bands on his ankles, clinked softly as the man reached out to squeeze his hands in reassurance. “You look beautiful,” was all he said to him before he dropped his hand and parted the large doors to the ballroom.

Khaled’s skin seared hot under the chandelier lights as he felt the gaze of every patrons’ eyes on him. Keeping his eyes focused on some neutral midpoint ahead of him –like that potted plant, yeah, is that even real? –he followed his master into the fray, swallowing nervously as he heard the heavy doors close behind him. It felt like everyone was staring at him, and from the glances he dared to take from his periphery, he understood why. Every other patron was dressed in formal attire. Even the few escorts he saw -and he could recognize a fellow sex worker when he saw one- were dressed more modestly than him. At least their chests were covered! His face burned with embarrassment, a blush that probably rivaled the cerise garnets, all the way down to his collarbones.

The boss stopped, finally, and so did he as they settled into the corner of the ballroom. They stood next to the bar and very close to the table laid out with several dozen little canapes. Khaled’s stomach loudly rumbled and his mouth pooled with saliva just looking at them. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was nearly eight hours ago. He glanced at his master, who was currently receiving a glass of whiskey from the bartender, and he carefully stretched a hand out to reach for the tartlet-thing closest to him.

“No.” His bracelets jingled as his hand was swatted away like he was a misbehaving pet. His master stared down at him as he threw back the shot of whiskey. Khaled drew his hand back to his side. “I’ll feed you when we get home, if you’ve been good, that is.” He sighed, but reluctantly nodded. He cast his gaze down to his sandaled feet as he tried not to think about the ever-present food and the persistent gnawing of his stomach.

A pair of expensive black leather shoes stepped into the top of his vision. “Thomas, so glad you could make it,” the unseen stranger greeted.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” his owner replied, a polite smile in the tone of his voice.

“So, who’s this?” The stranger’s attentions were on him.

“This,” he said boastfully, “is my darling, my dearest, my worst-kept secret!” Khaled wanted to shrink away from the attention, but has master’s hand on his waist reminded him not to. “Come on, Khaled!” He summoned his courage to look up. An older man with a pot belly and a short, dour-faced wife on his arm was appraising him curiously, as if he was an exotic item and not a person. Smile, damn it, an impatient voice rang in his head. He flashed them a shy smile as he looked at them through his kohl-rimmed lashes.

“Your intern?”

“My ‘intern’,” his master clarified.

“He’s a pretty one, how long have you had him?”

“Oh, about six years now, come this spring.”

“Wow! Well, you’ve obviously been taking great care of him!” It was so obvious that this stranger wanted to do more than just look at him, with the way his fat fingers practically vibrated in excitement.

 “Six years?!” a second guest –a tall and thin woman– gasped. Khaled realized by now they had attracted a small crowd of partygoers to the bar, all with the intent to sneak a peek at Don Costa’s boy toy. He ducked his head in shame.

“Mine didn’t even last six months!” the woman whined, trying to garner sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I just got lucky, I guess,” Thomas shrugged.

“Tell us, how is he in bed?” another guest asked.

“Good, though there’s not much skill in lying back and taking it!” A chorus of laughter accompanied his master’s. He found a scuff on the hardwood floor and pretended that was the only thing that existed.

“Does he speak?” yet another faceless guest asked. The whole semicircle of gawkers fell silent. Khaled dared to look up. All eyes were on him.

“Well, go on, boy, say something,” his master directed.

Khaled wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow him whole.

“W-what should I say?” he asked nervously.

An irreverent number of oohs and aahs erupted from the small entourage.

“Not even the faintest hint of an accent!” the first man exclaimed. “Now tell me, Tom, did you train him to speak that well?”

“No,” his owner admitted, “I mean, I hired a tutor to teach him English, but he trained the accent out of himself on his own.”

“Why, though?”

The stretch of awkward silence indicated they were waiting yet again for Khaled to speak, that they wanted him to answer. Khaled shifted his eyes to the floor again, swallowing past the discomfort of being scrutinized this closely. “Because… I didn’t want to stand out.”

-

“You were amazing!” Thomas complimented Khaled as he watched him shovel take-out falafel pita into his mouth like it was his first meal in days.

“So, this was just a one-time thing, right?” his beloved slave asked, cheeks distended with half-chewed falafel.

“Hey, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Thomas chastised him, “I trained you better than that.”

Khaled swallowed the food and apologized under his breath. “And to answer your question, who knows? They couldn’t keep their eyes off you,” he smirked pridefully. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, either. He glanced from the road over to his passenger in the car. Khaled had looked every bit as alluring as he had imagined when he was covered in gold and jewels and blood red silk. He would never admit he was hard for nearly the entire time they were at the party, but the evidence probably spoke for itself through the bulge in his slacks. “It’s no wonder though. Red is a good color on you.” And I want to see what you look like in blue next, he mentally added. “I just might drag you out to other parties in the future if we get attention like that.”

Khaled set his stub of a pita down on his lap. Thomas couldn’t help but grimace; what if it left a stain? “Do I have to dress like this again?” the young man asked, though his defeated tone told him he already knew the answer.

“Oh, don’t be so sad about it, you were gorgeous!” I thought about nothing but how to get you alone for the entire time we were there!

“I was nearly naked, Master. In public. In front of strangers. Does that not bother you?”

“So? I like to show off what’s mine,” he shrugged. “Look, when you’re free, you can choose to wear whatever you want, but until then, you’ll put on whatever I give you, okay?” Khaled slumped further into the car seat. Maybe it was a bit cruel to tease him with the freedom he’d never willingly give him. Thomas sighed, feeling a little guilty. He reached out a hand to pat a silk-covered thigh. “It won’t be very often, I promise,” he reassured him.

“Yes, Master,” his pet murmured.Thomas smiled. At the red light, he leaned over to kiss the side of Khaled’s sauce-stained lips.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee *BONUS* Scene part 9

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of being a weapon/semi-retired weapon, lost family, fractured memories, rejection, fluffy heart-to-heart conversation

He was ever-composed and collected, but now he didn't know what to say.

"Learning that the wife I'd been forced to forget is alive, and is too terrified to recognize me? And that I'm a nothing more than a messed-up science experiment? I'm doing great." Whumpee let out a single day laugh, humorless.

Flint nodded sympathetically. "Of course. Stupid question. I know you're not okay -- I didn't mean to ask in mockery. I meant to ask '/will/ you be okay'?"

Whumpee took a long time to answer. "...I'm not sure," he whispered hoarsely, staring up at the dark sky. "I don't think I can handle much more of this invisible pain. It's different when it's on the inside and you can't wrap it in gauze or apply painkillers. I've never felt this kind of pain before, and I... I don't think I'm supposed to be able to feel all this."

"It's okay to be a weapon and still have a heart," Flint chuckled. "Sounds to me like you haven't quite figured out how to live as yourself yet -- you're still expecting your training to activate and take away all the inner pain and emotion. But now that you don't have that ability anymore, you're struggling to acclimate to being emotionally human again."

"You're saying it's always going to hurt like this?" Whumpee's voice cracked. "I think... I'd rather go back to being Weapon than live with this strange new pain forever."

"No. You don't," Flint said with confidence.

"Why?" Whumpee croaked in confusion.

"Because it would mean sacrificing everything else you've earned for yourself as well. I've seen how gentle you are with Myra. She brings you happiness, does she not?"

"Yeah, but--"

"--And you smile more around her, correct?" Flint meaningfully cut him off, raising an eyebrow.

Whumpee’s brow furrowed. "...Yes?"

"So would you really prefer sacrificing those slivers of joy you get to be impassive again and feel nothing at all? Or would you rather be able to experience even the smallest amount of happiness, no matter how fleeting the sensation may be?"

Whumpee thought hard about it for several long minutes, mulling it over. "...I suppose you would be right -- I do enjoy some emotions, but not most of them, "Fli--Sir," he corrected himself firmly.

"I think we're past 'Sir' by now," Flint chuckled. "You don't need to be so formal anymore."

"Apologies, Si--Flint," Whumpee corrected the opposite way around, making the leader laugh again.

Flint sighed heavily, craning his head back to stare at the stars once his laughter died back. "It is the unfortunate reality of our existence that to truly live, we must also lose. It's inevitable. Unavoidable. Every 'hello' comes with the knowledge that there will one day be a 'goodbye'. Yet we choose to love, again and again, open ourselves up to being hurt... because it is worth it for the reward. To steal those small moments of light in the darkness."

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

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@dragongodryss @theforeverdyingperson

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim AU: Human Bellamy

Kane & Jim AUs masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, rescue, recovery, begging, starvation, starvation-induced weight loss

you guys can blame @anomalys-taxonomy for this one as they gave me this idea which then instantly rooted itself into my brain.

this is an AU where Kane took a human Bellamy instead of taking Jim (who is a vampire in this AU and helped Bellamy escape but otherwise isn't that important here). Bellamy is a very cooperative whumpee, unlike the defiant Jim, and made efforts to "get on Kane's good side". as such, Kane was a much less severe whumper in this AU, not hurting Bellamy outside of bites. they had a much lighter / less-whumpy dynamic than Kane & Jim do in canon, due to Bellamy's general diplomatic nature and Kane's incredible weakness to shallow flattery.

-

Kane looked up through teary eyes after the hunter left. There he was, Bellamy.

He used to be embarrassed of how much he missed the human after he ran away, but not anymore. All his pride had been washed away, and he just couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed anymore. All he could feel was a deep despair that Bellamy would be the one hurting him now. He never should have gotten so attached.

He could still see the bite-marks etched into Bellamy's neck, a reminder of all the pain he'd caused.

Bellamy cupped his face, and Kane squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper, expecting pain that didn't come.

"Oh, dear," Bellamy breathed. His hand was gentle, stroking along Kane's cheek, and Kane couldn't help but lean into the first kind touch he'd felt in years.

Bellamy's soft fingers hooked around the muzzle. "Let's get this off you then, shall we? I don't believe you require all this fuss, do you, Mr. de Sang?"

It was odd to hear a human use such a formal title for him after all this time. He shook his head in confirmation. No, I'll be good.

Bellamy lifted the muzzle off his face, wincing at the sight of burnt skin. His voice lost that calm, measured tone he nearly always had, pitching up a bit in barely-contained distress. "Oh my."

Kane wasted no time. He knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground. "I'm s-so sorry, Bellamy, sir," he sobbed, overwhelmed with fear of the unknown. "I'm sorry, p-please have mercy, I'm so sorry, please-"

"Shush. That's enough."

Kane snapped his mouth shut immediately at the proclamation, tears running into the ground. Bellamy didn't even want to hear his apologies.

Bellamy crouched and reached a hand toward Kane's chin, then seemed to think better of it and rested it on his back instead. "There will be time enough for that later, when you're not so out of sorts. Could you look up at me, dear?"

He'd never called Kane dear before. Back then, Bellamy had always called him either Mr. de Sang or my good sir, in what almost seemed a jovial mockery of the title Kane required of him, but too good-natured and generally respectful for Kane to really take as an insult.

Kane looked up, as ordered. "Y-yes, sir."

Bellamy gave him a smile that Kane might describe as soft if it were not so obviously forced. "I will indeed grant you mercy. I am not the violent sort, and you are in such poor shape that I could not fathom anything else. You may relax."

He couldn't possibly relax. Kane remained tense, wondering what exactly Bellamy meant by mercy. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

"You're very welcome. Come now, then." Bellamy stood, motioning for him to do the same.

Kane followed suit and followed Bellamy to his car. It looked luxurious, even more so than his own car. Humans did rely on them to get around, after all. He fretted about dirtying the seat as Bellamy ushered him into the passenger's side, but Bellamy didn't seem to mind, strapping him in with some sort of fabric restraint. His confusion only grew when Bellamy strapped himself in with the same restraint.

"This is a seatbelt," Bellamy explained, noticing his confusion. "Simply an invention designed to protect the fragile human body. You may undo yours, if you like."

Protect. Why would Bellamy want to protect him?

"I'll keep it on," Kane decided. "Thank you, sir."

Bellamy hummed at that, starting to drive. "I think I'll refer to you as Kane from now on. We're on a first-name basis by now, are we not?"

"Yes, sir." No one had called him by name in years. It made him feel warm, like he was almost a person again.

"You may call me Bellamy, if you wish. Though I don't mind if you continue with the 'sir' business."

"Yes, sir." Safer to stick with the more respectful title.

"I suppose you wouldn't be the most talkative tonight. Why don't I put this on for us?" Bellamy turned on the car radio, which immediately started blasting catchy pop music. Kane perked up at that- he hadn't listened to music in so long. His excitement only grew further when Bellamy switched the station and soft classical music began playing instead.

"Thank you," Kane said emphatically, starting to tear up again.

-

It was a long drive home, and Bellamy was about one millimeter away from losing his absolute marbles.

He hadn't been sure what to expect when he went to visit his former captor, but it certainly wasn't this. He certainly hadn't expected to be taking Kane home. There would be no catching up through cell bars now that his freedom could no longer be stolen away. Kane was not merely a prisoner. Bellamy didn't want to know all of what had happened to him: he wasn't sure his heart could take it.

Of course, Kane had been horrible to him. He'd stolen two years of his life away, bitten him nightly, and was terribly rude nearly the entire time, especially in the beginning. But this? This was too far, by miles and miles. Honestly, with how sensitive Kane's ego was, there mere act of being bested by humans would have already wounded him enough to teach him a lesson. This was monstrous. He couldn't even bring himself to feel intimidated by the vampire, especially after ten years and ample therapy.

He was good at keeping calm under pressure. He could handle a vampire so weak he could barely stand.

Bellamy parked- too much driving for his taste, tonight- and went around to get Kane out of the car. Still looking up at him with those big, desperate eyes, like he was ready to burst into another fit of pleading for mercy. He looked so utterly weak and terrified, it was a wonder anyone could think to hurt him.

"Alright, then. Inside we go." Bellamy took the executive decision of scooping Kane into his arms, given the man looked like a light breeze could knock him over. He weighed so little that if he were human, he would surely be dead.

Kane rested in his arms without protest. "Yes, sir."

Bellamy had a feeling he wouldn't stop hearing that phrase anytime soon.

"What'cha got there, Mr. Verta?" Hayward asked as he approached, eyebrow raised.

Kane tensed in his arms, bright-red eyes focused squarely on the hunting gear on Hayward's belt. "Sir?" he squeaked, voice full of new terror.

"Oh, this is Kane de Sang!" Bellamy introduced. "Kane, this is Hayward. He stands guard at night just to make sure I stay safe." Hiring a retired hunter to this position was still one of the best ideas Bellamy's ever had, in his own opinion. His presence has helped dramatically with his anxieties.

The situation seemed to be taking the opposite effect on Kane, who began to pull in short, panicked breaths, clinging to Bellamy's shirt.

Hayward also seemed to not be a fan of the situation. "You sure this is a good idea? You need help?"

"Please," Kane whimpered, starting to cry again. "I'll be good, p-please, please no more, I promise I can be good."

"No more," Bellamy agreed, holding the trembling vampire close. "Thank you for the concern, darling, but I believe if my guest spends much more time in the presence of vampire hunters, he'll perish from fright alone. He's been through an awful lot, you see."

Hayward nodded skeptically. "Uh-huh. And what's the plan here?"

"I am winging it," Bellamy announced with a wink.

Hayward sighed. "I'll be here if you need me. Be safe."

"Oh, the safest," Bellamy assured. "Worry not, worry not. That goes for you too, you know," he added, looking down at Kane. "Hayward is here to ensure my protection. So long as you do not intend to attack me or whisk me away, you needn't be afraid, and it's quite obvious you intend neither."

Kane nodded frantically. "I don't, I would never, sir."

"Of course you wouldn't. Well, let's be off, then." Bellamy mouthed a thank you to Hayward before carrying Kane into the house, setting him down on the nice, soft couch. Kane seemed to melt into it, some of his tension disappearing. Bellamy wasn't sure whether it was due to being out of the hunter's presence, or the couch itself.

"I'm sorry if I dirty your furniture," Kane said sheepishly.

"Oh, pish posh. Don't worry about that of all things." Bellamy could see that Kane was in obvious need of a bath, but there were other things that must be prioritized. He'd been thinking about it the whole drive home, and determined he was ready. Hayward was outside if things went south, though he was reasonably sure he could handle things himself, what with Kane's current state. "You look positively famished. Would you like a drink, for old times' sake?"

-

That certainly got Kane's mind off the fact that a hunter was stationed outside. He'd been expecting Bellamy to take revenge on him for what he'd done, but instead, he'd offered blood. Blood. Kane hadn't fed in so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like to not be hungry.

"You would let me feed?" he asked, eyes practically sparkling with hope.

"What else am I meant to do? Force you to starve? Invite you to feast on fruits and veggies as I do?" Bellamy shook his head at the ludicrous idea.

"Thank you, sir!" Kane exclaimed, suddenly overwhelmed with joy. When it did eventually come time for Bellamy's revenge, he would be okay with anything if he could have blood after the hurting. "Thank you so much, I can't believe this is really happening!"

Bellamy sat down next to him. "It is indeed. Though, I must be clear, this will not be a permanent arrangement. I shall not serve as a source of blood for any large portion of my life," he said firmly, suddenly serious. "Do you understand?"

Kane wanted to ask so many questions. How long would he be allowed food? What happens after? Would he be forced to wither in starvation again, or would Bellamy find another human to provide blood for him?

But he was too afraid to question the generosity that is any blood at all. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Bellamy smiled, his brief seriousness gone. "Wonderful." He rolled up his sleeve, extending his arm. "The neck is a bit cliché, don't you think?"

"I can bite?" Kane asked with bated breath.

Bellamy reclined back on the couch, arm still extended. "You may."

Kane wasted no time. He was being given permission. He bit into Bellamy's forearm- slowly, gently, trying to cause the least pain possible.

It was like a rich, flavorful explosion in his mouth. He had never tasted anything so wonderful, so delicious. All other thoughts slipped from his mind, replaced only with the desperate need to get as much blood in him as possible, as fast as possible.

He was distantly aware that Bellamy was saying something to him, but he was too entranced to process it. He needed blood. There was nothing more important than getting blood, it was the only thing in the world that mattered-

Bellamy tugged firmly at his hair, though slowly enough to avoid a sharp yank. He pulled Kane out of his arm, blood gushing out after.

His voice wavered a bit as he spoke, a hint of anxiety breaking through. "I've asked you to stop."

A wave of horror crashed over Kane as he snapped back to reality, realizing what he'd just done.

"I'm sorry!" he yelped, terror seizing his heart. "I'm so s-sorry, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I don't know what came over me, I was just so hungry I didn't realize what I was doing!"

It was a horrible excuse. Kane was the monster the hunters always said he was, trying to drain his old victim even after Bellamy was kind enough to feed him. He wept brokenly, knowing that it would be the last time. He'd be lucky if his only punishment was getting food taken away forever. He'd easily earned being put in the sun, or even being sent right back to his cell. No more comfortable couches, being gently held, listening to the radio. His reprieve over in a matter of hours.

He couldn't stop crying, mourning the soft life he'd never get to earn. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "Please, mercy, please, I can be better! I-"

"Kane," Bellamy interrupted softly. "I am not going to penalize you for drifting off a bit. It's clear that you are trying your very best." He extended his bleeding arm. "If you wouldn't mind, dear?"

"Oh!" Kane swiped his tongue over the wound, stopping the bleeding and licking up the excess blood as the relief settled in. "S-sorry. Thank you, sir, thank you so much for your kindness."

"Yes, I do believe you're in need of a little kindness after your ordeal," Bellamy said. "Now, why don't we get you cleaned up and into some proper clothing?" He smiled. "I will admit, I've always wanted to dress you up. You always wore such plain things back in the day."

Clothes. Bellamy was going to allow him clothes, like a reward even after he'd earned a punishment.

Kane nodded, finally letting himself give in to the hope that maybe things could be okay. "I would like that very much."

-

kane and bellamy do end up developing feelings for each other and getting together romantically as their relationship progresses, despite their troubled past. all of bellamy's friends share the sentiment of "bellamy, you are well-known for your bad taste in men, but this is a little far even for you." bellamy tells them it's just like beauty and the beast! :) to which they respond "no."

taglist in reblog!

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 74

Recovered formal whumpee is always uppity unfaltering, and as elegant as they could possibly be in every situation. Or they were, until the accident at the party ended up being quite the reminder of their past.

[suspensefulpen]

A Familiar Face

TW: Implied Character Death and Past Torture

Whumper walked amongst the formally dressed guests with a glass of wine in his hand. Ever since he lost Whumpee, this was his only to have any kind of fun. 

But this was slowly starting to get boring. 

Carewhumper was out of town, allegedly doing some business. He was most definitely doing the same thing Whumper was doing. Just last week he said that he’d be free until the end of the month. That suddenly changed three days ago after he received a ‘mysterious message.’ 

Whumper knew the truth. Carewhumper was off having fun without him. Probably gambling every cent in his pocket and going to some extravagant ball more important than the one Whumper was currently at. Too bad he wasn’t invited to tag along. 

He exhaled quietly before leaning against a pillar at the back of the room. Taking a sip of the wine, his gaze roved around the room before landing on a familiar face. Intrigued, he stood straighter and looked at the person more carefully. 

They had beautiful, soft features and an obvious figure outlined by their black pants and flowy white button up. A cute little black bow rested against their chest. 

With a smirk, Whumper instantly made his way over. He appeared on their right as the person they were previously talking with walked away. Humming, he looked them up and down. “It would seem angels really do exist.” 

They looked up at Whumper with a blank expression. They briefly narrowed their eyes before speaking. “Excuse me?” 

“A face like yours can light up this whole place without all these chandeliers.” 

Their eyes narrowed again as their brows knitted together. He couldn’t tell if it was in confusion or in disgust. Their eyes closely examined his expression before their own fell and they forced a smile. “Do you need something?” 

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Whumper shrugged, glancing downward. He adjusted his posture, taking a swig of his wine. “Well there is one thing I definitely need to know. And that’s if I’ve seen you in real life or just in my dreams. You look familiar.” 

They frowned deeply. “You really do disgust me.” Whumper’s smirk dissipated as they faced him completely. “You just hurt people and then forget about them once they’re gone, huh?” 

He froze. Hurt people? How would this person know that he’s hurt someone? Who are they? Plus, Whumper hasn’t hurt anyone recently. At least, that he can remember… 

“So you did forget?” They raised a brow. He opened his mouth to speak but they continued. “You really are sick. You caused Whumpee all of that pain and now you’re out living your best life like you never did any of it. Then you have the gall to say something like that to me after you took them away from me.” 

The puzzle pieces instantly began falling together. 

Shit. No wonder they look familiar. They aren’t just some random pretty face. They’re Caretaker. 

I need more Caretaker-Whumper interactions... 😔

Should I make a part 2?

[fallenwhumpee]

Martial artist whumpee:

~ That forgets a street fight doesn't have rules and gets hit because of it. Or not fighting with their full potential because they're too accustomed to the rules.

~ Gets hit on purpose to get a reading on their enemy because knowing your enemy is the easiest way to take it down.

~ Training with bigger or stronger partners because they need to grow. Better if the partner doesn't consider that whumpee is more fragile than them.

~ Getting their nose bone removed to prevent it from breaking.

~ Getting their shin bones crushed with a stick

~ Of course, anything that may happen in training or whumpee can decide to train beyond exhaustion. (Double trainings or training while down— with an injury or illness)

~ Improper equipments: Too big helmets or too small protection, maybe damaged gloves or barely hanging punching bags. Damaged gym equipment may snap or a bar might fall with its loose screws.

~ Running out of pain patches

~ Being bashed by their trainer for not being enough/losing/making a mistake or being an outcast in their club

~ Not being able to stop training after escaping from whumper/ being obsessed with training after whumper

~ Not being able to get their level after an injury or not being able to train as much as they would like after some (forced) break

Martial artist whumpee:

Dodges strikes to take them on another tougher body part (so they might have more endurance)

May be trained in talking down an aggressive whumper (and be flustered when that doesn't work!)

Being tied down would be more terrifying because they may emotionally rely on their ability to fight

"when I get out of here I'm gonna kick your ass/kill you"

[loserwithsyle]

Thinking about Whumper and Caretaker being siblings.

A whumper who used to comfort and be Caretaker's caretaker back when they were kids, but grew up to be just like their abuser.

Caretaker finding out that Whumper, their beloved sibling, did fucked up things to a child just like their own parent had done to them.

Caretaker listening to the young whumpee cry, and instead of being able to comfort them are so wrapped up in their own traumatic memories

The child whumpee who saw Whumper as a parental figure getting upset whenever this formally estranged aunt/uncle says bad things about Whumper.

Perhaps there was even a second parental figure involved. Are they being hurt? Did they encourage Whumper? Were they ever there for Whumpee?

Family dynamics in whump can be utilized in so many different ways

[whump-thoughts]

Robot whump save... robot whump save me please...

I NEED more robot whump where robot whumpee cannot actually express how extremely in pain they are. Like they have been hard programmed to be polite and always put humans needs before themselves and never be a inconvenience to any human under any circumstances so any attempt to communicate to caretaker about the extent of the damage that whumper has done to their body is filtered through that (either framed as something psychological or as something non-metaphorically programmed into them)

Which causes even more problems and tension when whumpee's caretaker is not someone equipped or knowledgeable enough to fix them up by hand. So therefore they have to trust what Whumpee tells them.

I also need more robot whumpees that talk formally. Idk I just like it