#given that at the time he was the only whumpee on the blog

[hold-him-down]

"He won't tell me what's wrong." - for the dialogue prompt thingy

“He won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Lincoln grumbles into his hands. A volunteer sits on the opposite side of the large metal desk, once occupied by Director Jones, who now sits behind bars awaiting trial. Link has gutted the office, save for all the files, which live in the safe, and this desk, mostly because sitting on the floor day after day felt like he was asking too much of his body. This desk, though, and everything else about this place, is covered in the blood of hundreds and hundreds of workers, and Link longs for the day that it can be burned to the ground. For now, though, he’s at its mercy.

“He won’t tell anyone much of anything,” the volunteer responds. “I tried last night, every time I got within five feet of him I feared for my life.”

Hyperbolic as it is, Lincoln can relate to the frustration.

“He hasn’t eaten,” Link says. The volunteer nods. “He didn’t sleep at all last night?” 

“Not that I noticed.”

He nods again. The options with River are incredibly limited. He is extremely resistant to any sort of help, and each time Lincoln has tried, he’s been met with open hostility that has, in some cases, led to physical altercations. He’s tired, and he’s scared, and he has to be fucking hungry. And, moreover, he’s in pain, although so far he has refused to offer any insight as to why.

Lincoln pulls out his file, printed only for the benefit of having something tangible to look at when he’s at a loss, and opens to the first page. A picture of River, several years earlier, greets him. He looked angry then, too, Lincoln thinks.

“Do you think he’d talk to any of the other residents?” Lincoln asks then. “Has he shown any interest in any of them?”

It’s a dark horse suggestion, but he’s low on ideas. Short of forcing River into an x-ray machine or into an ambulance or drugging him again, he doesn’t see a way around this. 

“No,” the volunteer replies. “He spent all night in his room, refused breakfast, and hasn’t spoken to a soul.”

[whumpsday]

Ancient Evils

Whump Oneshot - Writing masterlist

find my G/t blog here: @smallsday

content: g/t whump, giant whumpee, demon whumpee, magical whump, isolation, claustrophobia, burns, forced to obey, rescue, hurt/comfort, caretaking

Whumpmas in July Day 21: Abandoned GT July Day 21: Coveted Hug a Giant Day

dammit i did that thing again where i write a oneshot and it turns into the setup for a miniseries. will write a followup to this eventually lol but it also works as a standalone <3 (edit: might just leave this as a standalone, who knows)

-

The tomb was covered in glowing runes Berian knew from his studies, but had never encountered in use until today. Symbols carved painstakingly into stone by ancients, covering every inch of the thirteen-foot stone box, all screaming a single purpose: keep whatever lies inside sealed within.

The magic used to activate them was powerful, powerful enough to seal the tomb for two thousand years, powerful enough that the caster had surely died, given what they had to work with back then. It was likely all they could think to do in their desperation, back then. Berian uttered a quick prayer for the caster who came before him, who had sacrificed themself to save countless: long-dead, but not forgotten.

At least he wouldn’t have to follow in their footsteps. Two thousand years was, thankfully, enough time to develop a better solution. A way of utilizing the demon’s own magic against itself.

Though it was always in the back of his mind as a backup, in case something went wrong. Hopefully, the knot of anxiety in his stomach would dissipate after it was done.

Berian looked to his watches, lined up one after the other on his wrist, all still in sync, and waited.

As soon as it hit twenty seconds until release, he began chanting as practiced, his staff pointed directly at the tomb. He had to time it just right, or his colleagues out at the entrance probably wouldn’t even be able to come retrieve his corpse.

“Finis.”

Precisely at the same moment Berian bound the spell, the runes ceased to glow, a forceful BANG sounding from within the tomb.

He exhaled slow. The lid stayed shut. After only a few seconds, the runes resumed glowing once more. He’d done it.

The entity inside screamed.

Berian jumped back. The screaming did not stop, a wail of agony and despair. Barely audible under it all, his phone beeped, the least of his worries.

“Hello?” he called out, hesitant.

A voice roared from inside. “LET ME OUT.”

In all his wildest imaginings, Berian had never imagined the demon would speak to him.

He could, he realized. The spell had bound the demon to his will: it would have to obey him even outside the tomb.

And it was the only chance he would ever get. And they had backup plan after backup plan in place in case things went horribly wrong.

“...Okay. Don’t move.”  This would at least be a good test of whether the spell would hold, he told himself. It was safer this way, really.

Berian tried to lift the lid, but it was simply too heavy, a gigantic slab of solid stone. He pointed his staff to it, muttering just the right words to let it slide off to the side.

The demon looked like a man. He hadn’t expected that. He was as tall as the tomb was long, easily more than twice Berian’s height, with large, curled horns protruding from his head, but other than that, he looked human.

True to Berian’s order, he did not move a single muscle. His body lay stock-still within, his arms raised and palms up–he’d been attempting to push the lid off himself. Overlapping scars streaked down his skin wherever it touched the stone in the pattern of the runes, burned in as though with a branding iron. Massive shackles cinched tight around his wrists, ankles, and neck, chains binding him to the inside of the tomb.

The demon did not speak again, his eyes wide with overwhelming alarm.

It was only after a moment of taking him all in with awe that Berian realized it was him preventing the demon from doing so.

“You can move,” he amended. In addition to forcing the demon to use his own magic to re-activate the runes, the initial spell had contained a command preventing him from leaving the tomb. This would just be going overkill.

The demon gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “OUT. OUT. YOU WILL RELEASE ME.”

Berian winced. “I can’t do that. You’ll hurt people, like last time, right?”

To Berian’s continued amazement, the demon began to cry.

“ONLY YOUR ENEMIES. OR NO ONE AT ALL. WHATEVER ARE THE TERMS. WHAT MUST I DO TO BE RELEASED?”

Berian could have sworn he heard that powerful voice break, just a little.

“NAME YOUR TERMS,” the demon insisted. Berian was sure now, the desperation palpable.

The demon shifted slightly, and everywhere the stone touched new skin, it burned.

“You–you will harm no one,” Berian started, before he’d even thought how this was going to work. “You will stay in this section of the cave. You will not touch my staff or any other conduit of magic. You may exit the tomb.”

Berian had never seen something so huge move so quick. The demon burst from the stone box like a firework, chains snapping like rubber bands under his freed might, the ends hanging limply from his shackles. The cave ceiling was not tall enough for him to stand and he did not try, scrambling as far away as he could get and huddling against the wall there.

His phone beeped again.

The demon glared at him, his chin tucked into the metal wrapped around his neck, breathing heavily.

This wasn’t right. This was a demon that had wrought terror across lands, responsible for thousands of deaths, a giant among men. He wasn’t supposed to be… pitiful.

“Hey–”

“I WILL NOT GO BACK IN.” Now that he was out of the tomb, Berian could see the true extent of the damage, the burns even more intense on skin that had been pressed against the bottom. As huge as the box was, it had been built scarcely larger than the man before him, big enough to fit him and no more. Skin that had been pressed against the bottom was particularly scarred, so much so that it was essentially a giant burn, the symbols impossible to make out.

“I’m not going to make you go back in there,” Berian promised. Maybe a stupid promise. What the fuck was he going to do? “So just… it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting that. The demon’s glare gave way to surprise. “GOOD.”

Berian took an experimental step forward, like he was coaxing out a feral cat. “Do you have a name? Mine’s Berian. I’m–” Don’t say caster. “...A researcher.” It wasn’t a lie, after all.

The demon picked his head up. “THEY CALLED ME ALARIC. ALL-POWERFUL.” The words rang bitter.

“Were you… awake in there, all this time?” Berian asked, dreading the answer.

The glare returned. “I DO NOT SLEEP.”

“We didn’t know you were awake. You weren’t supposed to be awake.” Berian took a couple more steps forward.

Alaric put his hand up, huge, sharp claws protruding from every finger. Berian flinched, squeezing his eyes shut with a small yelp, but there was no attack: his commands prevented it. When he opened his eyes, he found Alaric merely motioning for him to stop.

“DO NOT BRING THAT NEAR ME.” He pointed to Berian’s staff.

“Okay! Okay.” He set the staff down on the ground, bringing his hands up in a placating motion. “See? You follow my commands, I follow yours, it goes both ways. I don’t have it.”

Alaric lowered his hand. “YOU MAY PROCEED, MAGE.”

Heart fluttering and permission granted, Berian did. He walked right up to him: even huddled on the floor, Alaric was taller than Berian was standing.

“STATE YOUR PURPOSE HERE.”

“Right! I, ah, I was sent to… re-seal you. But I won’t!” Berian clarified hurriedly. “Really, I was just sent to make sure nobody gets hurt. Like–like the last time you were out. That’s fine, right?”

Alaric narrowed his eyes. “IT IS DONE.”

“Good! Good.” Berian hovered a hand inches from his skin. “You’re hurt.”

“YES. THAT.” Alaric nodded toward the tomb and shuddered.

In order to create something that could contain a demon, they’d had to make something so totally opposed that it had harmed him. Berian didn’t blame the ancients: they had to stop the massacres one way or another, and they worked with what they had. They were desperate.

But there was no massacre now.

Without his staff, the kinds of spells he could perform were limited, but not nothing. While he couldn’t cast outright healing spells–would they even work on a demon?--he could at least cast something soothing. “I could… help. If you want.”

Alaric eyed him silently for a few moments before responding. “DO AS YOU WISH.”

“I can touch you?” Berian asked.

The demon nodded. Berian laid his hand lightly against Alaric’s back, red with harsh welts. He could feel Alaric’s muscle underneath, tensed, twitching slightly at his touch.

His whispered incantation didn’t do much. It was the magical equivalent of putting aloe on third-degree burns. But it was something, and Berian felt Alaric relax just slightly under his hand.

Berian performed the spell again and again, touching wherever it looked the worst. Between this and the earlier binding, he quickly exhausted himself, but that was fine.

“Better?” he asked.

“...YES.” Alaric looked down at him with a little less apprehension now. “YOU WILL BE SPARED, MAGE.”

“Haha, great!” Berian squeaked. “Just–just like everyone, right?”

“THOSE WERE THE TERMS,” Alaric agreed.

Berian wanted to get those shackles off. He wanted to take Alaric out of here, bring him to the lab. No, the lab wouldn’t be big enough to house him comfortably. Nowhere would. They’d have to build a custom facility, and there was no way he’d get permission for that, much less the funding. He couldn’t so much as let anyone know the state in which he’d left Alaric, or they’d find another caster and find a way to finish the job.

His phone beeped twice.

“I have to go, okay? You just… stay down here for now. I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “I’ll bring you things.”

“BRING ME A SHEEP,” Alaric demanded.

“I’ll bring you a sheep! Sure! And–I’m sorry about this, but if someone finds you, it’s going to be really bad, especially for you. So… be quiet,” Berian ordered.

Alaric did not respond. He couldn’t. His features set back into a glare, but he nodded: he was the one who stood to lose, after all. At least he understood.

Before Berian could think better of it, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the demon as much as he could manage to. Alaric did not push him away, even though he could have. If anything. Alaric leaned into it slightly.

He stayed like that for a good minute before stepping away. “I’ll protect you. That’s my job.”

Berian raced out toward the entrance, already planning his next visit.

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[secretwhumplair]

Found & Lost

1,264 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to The Outpost)

Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, starvation, mute whumpee, mentioned/implied: painful healing, death

Notes | Say hello to the prince! Surely nothing heartbreaking can happen now that he is safely with his people.

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog

Orafin’s vision went black for a moment when he slid off the horse, bending his broken legs in all the wrong ways.

Despite wanting to get away as quickly as possible, he hadn’t been able to help being glad Elgar couldn’t make the horse more than walk. Even so, everything was a haze of agony, his legs only the sharpest among the bruises and welts and open cuts all over his body, and the painful void inside his stomach.

He could hardly think, even now that General Tarrev’s familiar face struck relief from his tormented heart like a gold vein from raw stone. Barring his siblings, there could not have been a more welcome view than the man who taught him how to fight when he was a child, who could protect him as well as he helped protect the kingdom.

He distantly heard Tarrev order a medic and food to his quarters, and a messenger to ready themself. Then his voice turned quieter as he arranged Orafin into a bridal carry. »What have they done to you, my Prince.«

Orafin could barely process what was being said, but one thought broke through the haze. Something—someone—was missing.

It took all the effort he could spare, but he managed to grab Elgar’s hand as Tarrev turned away.

Tarrev looked into his pleading eyes, and thankfully understood. »You want your companion to come with us?« He switched to the Rekkshuran Elgar had used to communicate. »Can you walk, good sir?«

Orafin didn’t register Elgar’s answer. He found his head leaning against Tarrev’s arm; it was so nice and warm. Then what felt like moments later, he was set down into a cot that felt as comfortable, no, better than his four-poster at home.

He was going to go home.

All thanks to the poor creature who had been enslaved alongside him, and had the courage to run when he couldn’t.

Elgar’s hand hadn’t slipped from his, and now that he was almost comfortably reclined, aside from the pain, and flooding with what joy his exhausted body could handle, he found it less strenuous to turn his head and look at him.

He looked frightened, and Orafin gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

He had promised he would protect the man who had saved him, tonight in an act of unfathomable bravery but in truth probably a dozen times over, and he would keep his promise. He wanted nothing more than to tell him he was safe, that no one would dare lay a hand on him ever again, or else that he could go home when he had recovered his strength; but all he could do was squeeze his hand like they had done dozens of times.

»Here, your Highness.« Tarrev sat down on his other side with a bowl of—it could have been anything, for all Orafin cared. It was food.

He managed to take it in his feeble hands. It felt wrong, freely being handed food, like he would definitely be punished if he simply accepted it; he looked at Tarrev’s face to fight the horrific instinct that had been implanted in him, finding kind worry rather than lurking malice.

»I know it is not much, your Highness. I apologize, but it is dangerous for a starved man to eat too much, too quickly. You will not have to wait long on your next meal, on my word.«

Orafin thought he might cry from the care he was being shown. Elgar had done what he could with what he had, but he had never been quite able to make a material difference, except leaving him a tiny little more of his own food—and how grateful Orafin had been, knowing they were both hungry. He was almost ashamed a proper meal made him feel so much better, when it was so easily given.

He couldn’t focus too much on his concerns, though. It was all he could do to spoon the stew up rather than simply drink it out of the bowl in one go. It was difficult enough, even physically; he had not been allowed to even use his hands to eat for months.

He only distantly noticed the medic entering.

»Your Highness. May I attend to you legs?«

When he didn’t answer—he couldn’t simply nod when he wanted to beg for them to be careful—, the medic frowned. »Your Highness, can you not speak?«

He swallowed before opening his mouth in reply. Tarrev took in a sharp breath, and the medic’s shoulders sagged.

»Let him finish eating,« Tarrev told the medic in his stead, and Orafin instantly knew why. This would hurt. Tarrev got up and went over to his desk. »Wait…«

Orafin was already wiping the bowl clean with his fingers. There would be no way around it, and he shouldn’t be looking for one—they were goint to heal him, not pointlessly hurt him out of cruelty.

Tarrev returned with a slate and pencil. »Can you write, your Highness?«

Orafin took them with trembling hands, setting the cleared bowl down. His hands felt awfully unsteady, but he scrawled thank you on the slate, in the largest letters he could fit.

»I am your servant, your Highness,« Tarrev only replied quietly.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being able to communicate. There were so many things he suddenly felt the need to talk about.

But first, he held the slate up to Elgar. He had, Orafin noticed only now that the worst of his own hunger was sated, been given his own bowl of stew. He would have been surprised if Elgar could read Ochurian, but Tarrev picked up on his intentions. »His Highness wishes to thank you.«

Elgar only nodded timidly, ducking his head in a clumsy bow.

Orafin wanted to tell him a thousand things more, not the least that there was no need to bow to him, but Tarrev continued while he was wiping the slate, so he merely noted a quick, Please speak Rekkshuran, for the benefit of my companion.

»I wrote to their Majesty, your sibling,« Tarrev said, half-turning to the medic, and then repeated himself according to Orafin’s orders, continuing on in a language Elgar could understand. »If nothing holds them up, they can be here tomorrow night. They will be able to heal you if you prefer to wait.«

The medic nodded, hesitantly. »I can just give you something for the pain for now, then. But it’s always better with these things not to wait too long, even for a mage.«

But Orafin barely registered any of that. Their Majesty, your sibling. He stared at Tarrev, desperate for this not to mean what it had to mean.

Tarrev noticed the moment that had caught him, and his face fell. »Oh.« Orafin wasn’t sure he had ever heard the man’s voice go this soft, and he felt dizzy, knowing that this could not bode well. »Have… Had you not heard?«

Orafin blinked back tears. Only rumours.

Tarrev nodded slowly, lowering his eyes. »I am so sorry. Her Majesty passed from injuries sustained in battle… four months ago now.«

Without ever seeing her youngest son again, believing him dead. Without Orafin there to say his final goodbyes, or hear his mother’s last words, or even attend the funeral. With his siblings believing this to be the second loss in such short time.

Without him.

Orafin had thought he had run out of tears some hours ago, but now he covered his face in his hands and wept more.

[whumpshaped]

Manner-Minded maybe w Sil?

silence masterlist

manner minded: [character] remembers their good manners while sick. 

tw pet whump, illness, dehumanisation, multiple whumpees, phobia of pills

"Not again."

Sil didn't have a snarky reply this time. It knew how this went when it was sick — it couldn't yell at Master with a sore throat, couldn't think of witty remarks with a foggy head. It had to focus all of its limited energy on pleasing him for once, because otherwise it might not get treatment at all.

"I'm sorry, Master," it said quietly, trying not to aggravate the aches in its body. It didn't mention how this was a natural progression from the stupid, tiny heater being broken, or the lack of warm clothes it had been given. Master knew that. They both knew that. And 'blaming him' would've just ended in a beating.

Master looked it over with thinly veiled disgust, then sighed. "Well, I'm not going to stay here and catch it from you. So I suppose you're useless again for what, another week?"

It was a rhetorical question, and Sil just curled up a little tighter on its bed, waiting for the final verdict. Would it receive medicine for faster healing, or would it be left to fight it off on its own? The vet was out of the question, this much it knew. No one qualified– no one from the outside was allowed to see the damage.

"Why are you so fucking quiet now? Why aren't you barking at me like a feral dog, huh?" He stepped closer, then remembered what he'd said a few moments prior and stepped right back. "Whatever. If I get sick within the next days, I'm fucking killing you."

Sil tried to listen, past the pounding in its head. "Yes, Master," it said weakly, hoping it was supposed to acknowledge the threat.

"If you weren't a breeding ground for bacteria, I'd keep you sick all the time. You're considerably less annoying."

With that, he turned around and left. Sil didn't know whether that meant something good or bad, whether that meant it'd receive medicine sometime later that day. If it had to guess from all the comments, Master wasn't going to send any of his good pets down there, lest they catch the plague. As if a little cold would kill them.

But then who would deliver the food?

The darkness of the basement made it easy to slip in and out of consciousness, and Sil only tried to wake up fully when it heard footsteps approaching again. It was one of the pets, with a mask on its face and a tray of pet food in its hands. Sil didn't move a muscle.

"This is for the whole day," the pet said. "No second meal. So ration it. And the medicine is for twice a day as well, so only take one now. You can take another later."

Sill nodded, wondering how it was supposed to tell when enough time had passed. "Okay."

The pet frowned, but didn't make a comment on its pitiful state. It left in a hurry, leaving Sil alone with the disgusting fucking food and– and the pills. Pills. Master had given it pills. Instead of any of the liquid solutions, Master had decided to fucking terrorise it with the very thing that had been forced down its throat so many fucking times–

It turned over in bed, pulling the tattered blanket over its head. No more pills. No more fucking pills, even if it would kill it.

~

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[pumpkin-spice-whump]

I posted 1,327 times in 2022

That's 1,073 more posts than 2021!

238 posts created (18%)

1,089 posts reblogged (82%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@quietly-by-myself

@whumpsday

@hold-him-down

@ashintheairlikesnow

I tagged 1,065 of my posts in 2022

Only 20% of my posts had no tags

#van van speaks - 120 posts

#quietly-by-myself - 70 posts

#asks - 63 posts

#847481: jesse - 56 posts

#ashintheairlikesnow - 52 posts

#whumpsday - 51 posts

#my boy kensi - 47 posts

#deluxewhump - 46 posts

#reblog - 42 posts

#hold-him-down - 35 posts

Longest Tag: 123 characters

#it was supposed to get here last week my boyfriends birthday is in four days and its still on the other side of the country

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Caretaker: why didn't you tell me what happened to you before?

Whumpee:

51 notes - Posted July 25, 2022

#4

Reap the Harvest - Part 1

Oh boy a new series! I thought of it like three days ago and it took over my brain.

Thanks to @quietly-by-myself for helping me with research! (i didn't ignore your advice i swear i just needed this scene out of my brain) Also I know next to nothing about medical things so for the majority of this... just suspend your disbelief.

CWs: hospital setting, noncon surgery, amputation, gore, awake during surgery, treating people like property

Masterlist

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

Colin bounced his leg, hands shaking ever so slightly in his lap. He moved them to his sides and clutched the edges of the chair, shivering in the thin hospital gown. The waiting room was always needlessly and annoyingly cold. It usually didn’t bother him, but he was particularly nervous about this procedure.

It was his first time having an arm harvested.

Colin had donated skin, fingers, toes, blood, and bone marrow, but never an entire limb. Well, it was just going to be from the elbow down but still. He was nervous. No, he thought, nervous was too casual of a word. It was stupid but well... He was scared. He was scared like he was the first time getting his blood donated. When donating blood, they would take nearly half of its volume in your body, since it was not exactly needed for his peoples' survival. Still, the next few hours would be spent cold and delirious until their bodies could replenish it. The mere thought had terrified him as a kid, and now it felt totally normal, although a little inconvenient. He would eventually feel the same way about this.

But he couldn't help the fear he felt. Regenerating from having entire limbs taken wasn't as fast as replenishing blood, it could take days -- up to a week! -- and Colin didn’t want to spend that long helpless and in pain.

To his utter embarrassment, he felt tears pricking at his eyes, but he forced them down, glancing at the camera in the corner of the room. He would not show that he was scared, even though he undeniably was. He had enough pride to at least keep it to himself.

When Colin first heard that he was assigned to donate a limb that month he'd done his best to look brave, maybe even confident. He was eighteen years old, and he'd been assigned to have a limb harvested. He was a real adult now, and real adults didn't care about their assignments. They just went through the motions and did their duty.

His parents could tell he was scared, though. Rayleigh and Daniel had sat him down countless times over the month, trying to comfort him and convince him that it really wasn't as bad as he thought. They said that it would hurt, yes, but he would heal and be given time before another big one came his way. It wasn’t the end of the world. He'd regenerate quickly and be okay.

Bridger told him that it would hurt like hell and he’d never be the same again. Their dad had slapped him upside the head and told him to stop being a jerk. But he didn’t deny it.

That scared Colin even more.

It wasn’t so much the thought of the surgery itself as it was the promise of oncoming pain. Anesthesia and painkillers would dull his body's healing properties, so he'd have to go into surgery fully aware and alert. It hurt when his skin was peeled away and fingers were taken, but it was bearable. But his arm? The bones they’d have to break and cut through? That made his stomach cramp up.

And then there was the weirdness of knowing that a large part of him would just be… gone. For days, until a new one grew back. He’d be vulnerable and incomplete and the thought made him more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. 

He had hardly slept at all last night, which was only going to make it worse, but the anticipation of the unknown and large procedure, coupled with not being allowed to eat for hours, made him too sick to sleep. Rayleigh had crawled into bed with him and rubbed his back, reassuring his fears, until he managed to doze off in the early hours of the morning. Bridger woke up at some point in the night and made fun of Colin for needing that, but for once he'd just ignored him. Maybe it was childish, but his mother's presence always helped him feel calm.

After just a couple restless hours, Rayleigh woke him. She and Daniel walked Colin down to the clinic just a few hallways away from the family dorms, leaving with a few words of encouragement and promises to be right there in the recovery room to take him home when the procedure was over. Colin nodded wordlessly, giving a weak smile to his parents before the door was shut.

He'd changed into a gown and had a quick physical by a nurse (the psych eval had been done a few days prior) before having the barcode on the back of his neck scanned and being left in the waiting room... Where he was still waiting at least an hour later, trying to stop his heart from jumping up his throat.

At this point he was hoping that Dr. Malsom would show up and they could just get the whole thing over with.

As if he could read his thoughts, Nurse Blakely appeared at the door. “Colin Sharpe?” he asked, like Colin wasn’t the only person in the room.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his gown and stood up, clearing his throat. “Yes, sir,” he said. His voice trembled.

The nurse motioned for Colin to follow him out the door. His legs felt like jello, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the fear or lack of food. Probably both.

He’d walked this hallway countless times over the past five years, but today it seemed impossibly long and imposing, like it did the first time he’d ever walked it. Then he was only thirteen, nervous but proud to finally be able to do his duty. Parents are encouraged to walk back their children the first couple of times, and he held tightly to Daniel’s arm, trying to put on a brave face but also seconds away from bolting in the other direction.

He almost laughed thinking about how he hadn't really changed.

Blakely opened the doors to one of the many operating rooms at Rockmire Hills, holding it open for Colin before he followed, locking the door. Dr. Malsom stood next to the operating table, conversing lightly with Nurse Kelley. They looked over at Colin and waved him inside, gesturing for him to sit on the operating table. A cart of instruments stood off to his left, but he pointedly avoided looking at it as he lay down.

“How are we feeling, Mr. Sharpe?” Dr. Malsom asked easily.

Colin took a deep breath before answering. “I’m fine,” he lied. His voice was still weak. Probably weaker.

Dr. Malsom and the nurses pulled on masks and caps. “You're okay,” he assured, the nurses strapping Colin down.

See the full post

56 notes - Posted May 14, 2022

#3

sorry i'm late i was doing normal things (I was torturing the captive in my basement with a hot knife to hear his pretty screaming)

103 notes - Posted November 17, 2022

#2

Love how this whole community centers around our shared love of torture but every time someone says they're gonna hurt their characters everyones like "HEY THATS NOT OKAY"

241 notes - Posted February 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Writing is so stupid because you're like it's just putting down words I know words this will be so simple and then it's the most difficult thing you've ever done

22,462 notes - Posted July 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[octopus-reactivated]

Title me Miss: Bath time!

Took me really long to write it, but it's done. What can i cay, i'm a slow worker

Also, thank you to @whump-blog for proofreading 💜🦀💜

Tw/cw: Pet whump, Whumpee thinks Caretaker is new Master, multiple(2) Caretakers, mention of starvation, fear of hurt (knife), touch starvation. Let me know if i missed anything

__________

Miss took the last sip of her tea and put the cup down. Juli took this as a sign that the breakfast was over. 

It was one of the best meals he ever had. Food wasn’t like in the facility: completely tasteless or spicy to hurt his freshly cutted mouth. It wasn’t spiked with drugs that made his legs wobble and his head spin. And now, when Juli was sure it wasn’t human food too and when he had a clear task, he felt safe and so … not guilty. Well, maybe a little bit guilty. 

At least, he managed to stop himself from devouring food as soon as it was given to him. It was difficult, but not impossible. He shouldn't complain anyway, not when he was shown so much mercy. 

__________

“I… um…” he stuttered.  Miss looked at him confused. His heart thumped, as he realized he would have to explain why he dared to speak up unprompted.

“I currently don't have any wounds” he admitted “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was supposed to look presentable and… I'm sorry, so sorry…”

There he was babbling and muttering again. Pathetic. 

“If you wish so Miss…” he took a few shaky breaths to calm himself down, “you could open some yourself?”

As soon as the sentence left his mouth, he realized how stupid idea it was. Who was he to dictate Miss what to do?

But she said she wanted to get his wounds treated. 

“Miss?” He asked in a shaky voice, trying to imagine her grabbing a knife and dragging it on his skin.  Would it be a few cuts on his back? Shallow cut near a vital area, so she could feel him shake in fear, but still try to hold still to show obedience? One long cut going from his back to chest and back to back in a spiral?

He dared to look up. 

Miss looked at him disgusted… no, more than that. Horrified. 

He remembered how she told him earlier that she liked him. This must have changed by now. 

If only he learned to keep his mouth shut and keep his stupid suggestions to himself.

“Juli” Miss said in a sweet voice, the one that people in the movies often used when they were so angry, that they became completely calm.

She crouched to his level and placed a hand on his check. He was so, so terrified, and yet, some of his old training kicked in, and he involuntarily leaned into this comfort, even if it was just an illusion “No one's going to hurt you.” She said, gently tilting his head up, forcing him to look into her face “Not me, not Justin or anyone else”

“No hurt?” he repeated, wide-eyed.

“That’s correct. You’re safe here”

Juli sighted from relief. 

As long as he behaves, he won’t be hurt. 

That meant so much. He will be -somewhat- free of constant pain.

Have you forgotten how frequently you mess up your tasks?- mocked him the voice inside his head -How long will you go without punishment? That is, if you even get to have punishment instead of being abandoned.

He bowed down to show his gratitude. 

“I have to get going now” she took her hand away “I should be back for late dinner”

He didn’t understand why she was saying this to him, why did she feel the need to explain her plans to him, as he could understand or influence human ways. 

__________

“Water should be warm enough. You can get yourself ready,” Sir Justin said. “There is soap and stuff. I’m going to check up on you in a few minutes, but if you have any trouble you can call me”

Like he would dare to call sir, like he had any power to decide when sir came and went.

But he didn’t want to argue. That was a bad idea. A very bad idea. A recipe for getting returned.

Sir looked at him like he waited for an answer, so Juli confirmed that he understood, and then sir left.

There wasn’t much time. The Boy got out of clothes and folded them as nicely as possible, then grinding his teeth, he jumped into a full bathtub.

To his surprise, the water wasn’t ice-cold or even boiling hot. It was warm, yes, but not hot. Why was it warm? Maybe it was supposed to be hotter, but tap water couldn’t get any warmer? Why not boil it on the stove, then? But this could take a lot of time and effort, and he wasn’t worth it. 

Or was it to taunt him? ‘Look at him, he gets to clean himself  in warm water, almost like a human!’ Or was it to show off Miss’s wealth? ‘Actually, I can afford to give a nice bath even to my pets!’ Or maybe it was to give him something nice, so it could be ripped out of him later on, to hurt him and leave miserable.

It wasn’t his place to try to understand human reasons anyway.

 ________

The boy waited for him in the water. Sitting still, head down, back hunched. Justin expected him to start clearing himself, but no point In pointing this out, it would only stress him out more.

‘I thought we could wash your hair first’ he suggested, but the boy must have to consider this more of an order than a suggestion. 

Juli obediently leaned back, as Justin wetted his hair and when he put shampoo on them. He gently rubbed it in, when he noticed that Juli was closing his eyes. At first, he thought it was to not let the soap in, but then realized that the boy leaned into his hand, seemingly unbothered by the fact that it was still covered in bubbles. His breath hitched a little. Justin let him lay like that for a while, rubbing his cheek. Poor thing was visibly touch-starved. And regular-starved too. Justin had no heart to pull his hand away. He felt a sense of responsibility for the boy. 

When Decima first arrived, she had little to no understanding of how upperland culture and society worked. So if someone would tell her that Pets were on every level different from humans – she would probably believe that. It just happened that Justin was first. And now she decided to help one of those poor souls. 

“I’m going to wash the shampoo off,” he said, grabbing the shower’s head. He’ll do everything he can to help Juli heal from his wounds

__________

Taglist:  @kim-poce @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @kween-pinescales @wolfeyedwitch @myst-in-the-mirror @dont-touch-my-soup @obsessedwithegos @cicatrix-energy

[lumpofwhump]

Do you know how one would write brainwashing whump? For context: Girl has to fight her adoptive older brother who was kidnapped in the middle of the night by a dude who is obsessed with dolls. I wanna make it painful for him since he’s the oldest between him, the adoptive sister and his bio sister so he’s gonna be thinking about them and when they find him the light in his eyes are gone, and he’s way too compliant to his kidnapper. (I’m prolly gonna ask a lotta whump blogs sorry)

TW: Torture, cults, mention of institutionalized child abuse

Do you mean how one would write the brainwashing process itself? Oh boy, here comes the infodump!

What we think of as brainwashing has a lot in common with torture and interrogation, as well as cult tactics of control (and methods used in “troubled teen” programs, but do not get me started on that or we’ll be here all day). So a lot of the same methods of making someone compliant and suggestible work here too, especially in combination with one another:

Food deprivation (including small portions or nutritionally unbalanced diets)

Social isolation/solitary confinement

Sensory deprivation/sensory bombardment

Bathroom deprivation

Sleep deprivation

Holding stress positions for long periods of time.

Forced repeated exercise

Some things that you can also play around with are:

“Struggle sessions” or “encounter groups,” where a group of captives are made to insult or scream at each other, weaponizing their relationships, insecurities, and even responses to stress for hours on end without break (except possibly of their minds 🙃).

Thought-terminating clichés - phrases whumper uses to immediately shut down positive comments about the targets or other forms of verbal resistance, until whumpee internalizes this.

Having the whumpee listen to recordings that espouse the whumper’s point of view for hours on end, especially if this is the only semblance of social contact they have.

Reenactment or forced confession sessions where the whumper progressively gaslights the whumpee into believing that their targets have harmed them or others. For instance, whumpee has to write a list of every interaction they’ve had with their loved one they can remember. Whumper rejects the list as untrue or incomplete, making them write it again. Rinse and repeat for five, ten hours, no bathroom breaks, no food, no sleep, nothing, until whumper gets something closer to what they want. Then, on another occasion, have whumpee reenact a negative interaction with whumper, and whumper makes it sliiiiightly worse. Repeat the process until whumpee believes their target is a fucking abusive monster.

Closer to the end of the process, have whumpee “practice” violence against effigies of the intended targets, or actors (especially if they’re other captives!) to desensitize them to it.

I honestly wouldn’t use nonconsensual drugging in writing brainwashing, as 1) it’s unpredictable and 2) it can wear off, but if that’s a theme you like, it’s fiction, so have fun!

If you, or anyone else reading this, wants to do a deep dive into this, I’d recommend the following:

Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: A Study of ‘Brainwashing’ in China by Robert Jay Lifton.

Declassified CIA Interrogation Manuals from the 60’s and 70’s (I dug them up on Google a few years back).

Poisoner in Chief: Sidney Gottlieb and the CIA Search for Mind Control by Stephen Kinzer: Ultimately more about what doesn’t work in reality than what does, but holy GOD is the CIA infinitely more fucked up than you think.

Books, podcasts or documentaries about specific cults - Synanon, Scientology, and the People’s Temple (AKA Jonestown) are the ones I’ve read/listened about most.

The Lucifer Effect by Philip Zimbardo. Even given the criticisms (to say the least) of the Stanford Prison Experiment, it still has a lot of valuable information.

Help at Any Cost by Maia Szalavitz, about the “troubled teen” industry of boot camps and modern day reform schools that draw a lot from the cults of the 60’s and 70’s. (HEAVY CW for child abuse.)

This is probably more than you wanted, but I hope it helps!

[albino-whumpee]

Wired Shut

Fixing the bad arc to be even worse because I forgot to mention things about his torture methods. Hope you like this!

Taglist: Ask to be added or taken off it!

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog @giggly-evil-puppy @cowboysrappin @haro-whumps @burtlederp @neuro-whump @comfortforthepain @whumps-the-word @whole-and-apart-and-between @broken-horn @ashintheairlikesnow @rosesareviolentlyread @starnight-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @as-a-matter-of-whump  @whumpasaurus101 @grizzlie70 @twistedcaretaker @wingedwhump @unicornscotty @melancholy-in-the-morning

CW// dubcon body modification, slavery, pet whump, mentions of past torture, sadistic whumper, dislocation, dehumanization, conditioning, forced mutism, broken whumpee, hallucinations, mental torture games, shackled, suicidal ideation, captivity, teeth whump ptsd, sound torture, trauma response to darkness  Ask to tag!

He shouldn’t have said a thing. He was supposed to stay quiet while his Master played with him, but after a while the pain was too big to bear. The pet had thought it would be okay to use the extra minutes his Master had given him for staying quiet for two weeks straight, to beg him to stop.

His Master was very kind. He let him choose what would break next. What bone he would dislocate and put back in place sometime later. Like he had done before, when his hands were wrapped in bandages but his blood still dripped down the wall. 

Slowly, the pet began to wonder when that would happen when his master got bored of him. 

He knew the answer, but the fear about the method made no words come up during the long, silent moments when his master wasn't doing anything to him. As time went on, slowly, like a broken pipe filling a glass, drips of memories of another time came back to him. 

The glass, however, was too broken to hold them long enough to fill it back. Every night spent inside the darkness of a box cracking it just a little more. Until the pet cried no more as the fists blew on him. No emotions on his face until his master took him back to the box. 

The mere sight of it was enough to make the pet claw at his master. In the beginning, no matter how painful the shocks were, he would speak. He would beg and cry to escape being in the box even one more minute. But his pleas fell on deaf ears every time, shut out of his master´s mind as the box was sealed and locked with no knowing of when it would open again. 

Inside the darkness, his nails wore the wood away, until the wood was smooth and stained with dried blood. 

Once he was finally outside, he would become more obedient, more silent. Slowly, to avoid the inevitable terror of the box, his mind slipped away. Only waking back up once he was out and his fingers red and sticky. 

It was not something the pet could control, but was enormously grateful it happened. However, his master quickly took notice of his taciturn look, the way he swayed and his eyes lost their shine as he pushed him inside the box. So when he was slipping into that blissful haze, suddenly, the screech of music too loud to take in blasted from every direction in the dark box. It was impossible to muffle, and oh he tried. 

Once the music was put off and his ears rang too loud to hear his master's orders, he hoped his master would get bored of him soon. Hopefully, it would take his master´s sadness with him.

Beautiful red patterns had already faded into the skin. Healing into white, voluminous scars all over his body. Despite having thought it pretty once, when a sense of shameful pride invaded him when his master told him he had made them, once the memories of the table came back, he couldn´t help but scratch a bit rougher when it itched. His master joked often about covering what little patches of skin were left untouched with more of his designs, but the pet wasn´t sure he would be able to even if he wanted to when his hands still hurt below the bandages long after being hung from the wall.

One day, his master gave him a choice when commanded to sit on the sofa, something he did as his stomach twisted inside him. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

Your place is on the ground. 

But it was his master's orders…but his master often ordered him things that went against his rules. If he disobeyed, he would get punished…but then again, even when he obeyed, he would get punished anyway.

Resigned, the pet sat on the edge of the sofa.

The person taking out their tools next to it greeted it like a normal human. Despite the pet´s confusion, he graciously slipped to his knees. Exactly how his Master had taught it to greet. Bent on the ground and not allowed to move until someone touched his head.

The woman looked conflicted as she put a delicate hand on its head. Kindly lifting his face with the tips of her fingers before she grabbed the arm that didn’t ache and pulled him back up on the sofa.

“Mouth or arm?” Its Master repeated his question, annoyed. His master had gotten mad about something lately, but his memory didn't need to be perfect to know it was the pet´s fault. 

Every beating, his master would make sure he knew he deserved it because of what he did, after all. 

The names he would recite when he retold his sins, injecting another shot of blazing, white hot pain as the memories rushed back to his head, incomplete and fractured in a way he couldn't tie everything together to make sense or put a face on them. From the names he remembered, he knew there was one that ignited anger and grief just as much as guilt and longing. 

Everything that happened to him was his fault. As well as what happened to those people and his master. He had no right to blame, so he took it all, quietly.

It was his fault.

Talking wasn't allowed, so he felt proud when he pointed his mouth. Maybe it would prove to his master he would be quiet. That it could be good.

So when his Master smiled and the woman dragged out a long sigh, he was pulled down into the seat and ordered to relax. Doing as ordered finally came with a reward. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry, darling. You’re doing well. Stay like that” the kind woman whispered as she worked. Not giving him more pain than necessary.

When she put the glue over his teeth, when he felt it harden and then a metal structure was gently put between them and his lips. When it couldn’t hold its lips open wide enough and a silicone object was shoved inside its mouth to prevent that, he scrunched his eyes as the wires were tightened around his, tying its jaw locked. Preventing him indefinitely from opening his mouth to do stupid things a pet shouldn’t do. Like talking or begging.

When the woman was done she gave him something. Discreetly, away from its Master’s eyes. His eyes had never made the world very clear, but a different kind of fog covered his sight when he saw it said” numbing cream” on the package. Careful to not let it be found out, he bent down on the floor again as goodbye while his Master showed her the way outside.

The pet quietly sat on the stairs now, dragging his aching legs closer to his chest. He hoped his Master would take a while. Guilt being lower than the relief of being alone for a second.

So when that guy, the freckled guy with a nice smile, came to talk with him, he moved his hands as much as the pain allowed.

He didn’t know how his master didn’t seem to know he lived with them if he always stood close. Sometimes even comforted him when the pain was too much at night in his crate.

“What happened to your mouth?” The man signed. His throat was covered with a muted green scarf.

“Fixed it” the albino signed back showing his teeth with the metal structure. Hands shaking slightly with the strain “so I won’t be a nuisance to Master anymore” it said.

“And how are you gonna eat?” The man signed with a frown on his face. Always so worried about him…he liked him. He was always very nice and he seemed to know him before he belonged to his Master. He wondered since when… How had they met?

“It will be fine. Master won’t let me starve…for too long” he smiled pulling a hand to his mouth and soothing it with his fingertips at a sudden bolt of pain “She was nice enough to give me this” he showed the cream and rubbed it over his gums. “It won’t hurt in a bit,” he said, putting it away. Hiding it on his shorts waistband.

The freckled man stared at the hall in front of them. Reflecting something before he said “He's making time. All of it hurts just enough, and stops right before the worst… you know it don’t you?” He kept his hands above his knobby knees. At least he could somehow walk now. The freckled man put a hand over his head and softly passed his fingers through his hair “Stay alive ok? You can´t die here” he said, before lifting himself up and kissing his forehead “I will come back for you” he signed before disappearing after turning a corner, opposite from where his Master popped out from.

His Master called him to his side and in a second, he was down on his knees before him and looking up. A rough hand passed over his lips before a thumb shoved his lips open. A fond smile appeared at the flash of metal on his mouth. 

“You won’t need this anymore then” he said as he gently passed his hands to his neck to unbuckle the shock collar. With a swift pull, his master put it in his pocket as he ordered him to follow him back to the basement. He fastened the shackle on his ankle and stroked his cheek tenderly, before leaving.

It was freeing.

It had been the right choice.

Or so it seemed before the man took the small lamp that had been the barrier preventing him from screaming in panic as the dark engulfed him in the cold basement.

He could scream all he wanted now, but there were heavier shackles than the tiny metal wires on his mouth preventing him from doing so. 

Jerking his jaw and shaking violently, he crawled to the far back of the crate and curled into himself. Wrapping his arms around the mucky pillow, helplessly begging his Master to please bring back the light before he saw the freckled man with a dim light on his hands.

He put it down right before the crate and with awfully worried eyes, he pulled himself inside the crate. The pitiful pet flinched when he got too close, but when the freckled man stayed right there, sitting with knees so close to his chest because of the small space, the pet shyly scooted closer. Feeling its heart pounder on its ears and its face wet with tears when the freckled man passed an arm around it and pulled the blanket over its shoulders, letting him bury his face on his shoulder. Thumbs doing little circles over its transparent clothes. Allowing his heart to still, ease, as he put the light on his hands.

A dream so sweet, his mind refused to believe in reality he was only crying against the cold wall of his crate, holding the pillow like his life depended on it, clenching the ripped blanket around his shoudlers for safety, nobody could see it in such darkness.

[secretwhumplair]

Night

1,338 words | The monster of Lindborough (sequel to Messy)

Content | Werewolf whumpee, internailzed dehumanization, isolation, mention of: family death

Notes | Everything is scarier by night! But also generally more emotional! Enjoy!

Taglist | @whump-cravings​​​ @inkkswhumpandstuff​​​ @wolfeyedwitch​​​ @whump-blog​​​ @whumpsday​​​ @myhusbandsasemni​​​ @whumpzone​​​ @kira-the-whump-enthusiast​​​ @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @briars7​​

This was insane.

But if his - its - bullies would go so far as to pursue the wolf right into his, William’s, chicken coop, he barely had any choice. He had been given responsibility of the creature, and so he had to keep him safe - especially now that he was already so badly hurt.

Even if it meant letting the wolf into his home.

This was insane.

Night was falling - the time of monsters - and he couldn’t even banish this one outside.

He had thought hard about where he should let the wolf sleep. The doors inside the house didn’t lock, so there was little point keeping them between them, and so he finally had decided to let him sleep in the bedroom, had assigned it the corner across from his own bed and instructed it to lay out a second blanket for it to sleep on.

Now night was falling, and he was second-guessing his decision.

He doubted he would sleep at all. The wolf looked small and frail between its blankets, half-swallowed by the darkness now only broken by the light on William’s bedside table - he wouldn’t extinguish it tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to it - but he was still a wolf. The thought had gotten slowly buried in William’s mind, more than he ever wanted it to, but now, in the same room with it, by night, he was all too keenly aware.

It took all his self-control to even look away from it, leave it out of its sight and stare at the ceiling instead.

It fit, William reckoned, that an awful night would follow such a very strange day. The wolf, caught bloodied with his hen’s blood, and yet apparently innocent. The boys - he’d only seen them briefly when they came to deliver his coals, the lot of them accompanying today’s carrier and eying him with enough expectation to confirm what the wolf had said, sparking a fury that felt oddly misplaced; it should be the wolf who sparked it, at some point, and yet he knew this was nightmarishly correct. Then the wolf, seeking out his company only to cry quietly in his corner.

And then the wolf’s egg-stealing confession. Was it a ploy to evoke his pity? What on earth had he hoped to achieve with that?

Maybe he was overthinking, and no wonder, when he had to distract himself from the wolf being right there, in his house. He glimpsed over at it, unable to resist.

Its eyes were right on him, and he started at the realisation. They were shining in the weak lamplight - was it crying again?

Only when its eyes shifted towards his face did he realize it hadn’t been staring at him at all, it had been looking at the lamp.

It moved back a bit when it saw it staring at it, as if trying to get away. It was still scared of him; he couldn’t really blame it, not anymore, but it was a werewolf.

What a bizarre situation. How had he ended up like this?

He forced himself to look away again, even with his heart still beating fast from when he’d thought it was watching him.

He would not sleep tonight.

After a time passed in tense silence, he heard a soft rustle, and turning to look, he saw the wolf standing - no, taking a step towards him.

»Stay away!« The words were out before he could think, before anything other than a fierce jab of panic went through his brain.

The wolf immediately stilled, ducked, and then cowered down. »I’m, I’m sorry,« it whispered, and now he was sure it was crying. »I just - I’m sorry.« William heard it sob once or twice until, he assumed, it forced itself into silence, laying down again.

It looked, once more, unbelievably like a lost, hurt, lonely boy.

William leant back against the wall - he’d barely noticed himself sitting up. »What did you want?« he finally asked when he felt he could trust his voice, even though a nagging voice in his brain still insisted, Eat you, obviously.

The wolf looked up. »I j-just - I wanted to - lie beside your bed. I-« A sob interrupted it, and then, when it continued, its voice was liquid, dissolved in tears. »I’m always alone.«

William barely hesitated. He couldn’t, even when that tiny voice screamed at him that he would regret it. »Alright, come over here.«

The wolf fell silent, and for a moment, it didn’t move at all; then, it hesitantly stood, as if it didn’t trust his ears, or William’s words. It walked over, moving slowly, wrapped in its blankets, then carefully laid down on the floor beside him.

For a while, they returned to silence. It was different now, though. It wasn’t just tense - it was awkward.

The boy - the wolf really had just come over here crying about being lonely, and he, William, sat there like a piece of brick.

»How long have you been… you know. A wolf?« he finally asked, half-hoping the wolf had fallen asleep in the meantime.

He hadn’t - William heard him move, although he refused to look down on him. It didn’t seem right now, somehow.

»I think… I think a year last month?« His voice was still wobbly, but he wasn’t fully talking through tears any more, William thought, and that was strangely relieving.

Which was good, because the date the wolf had given slapped him cold across the face. It was a mere coincidence, he knew that… and yet.

»I tried… I tried to stay away from people. I never wanted to hurt anyone.« William could hear the tears threatening to choke the wolf’s words out again, but he could only listen. »But th-the wolf, it smelled your sheep. I’m - I’m so sorry.«

William didn’t think he’d heard this long a string of words from the wolf before.

Not that he could blame it. He had never asked.

»You’re the wolf,« he pointed out, waiting for an explanation. Something inside him squirmed uncomfortably, like a horrible thing was just about to happen.

»Yes,« the wolf conceded hurriedly.

Then it fell silent, so William had to prompt it. »What did you mean then?«

The wolf swallowed, then spoke so quietly William had to strain to hear, even in the silence of night settled over them like a suffocating blanket. »It’s, it’s different. When I’m - transformed - the wolf doesn’t know - it doesn’t think. It just feels, hunger and anger and f-fear-« Its voice cracked, and William waited for it to collect itself. »It doesn’t know about. Ownership. Or morals or anything like that. It’s different... when I…« It swallowed again. »I’m scared,« it finally whispered. »I’m so scared, every time, what it will do. That’s why… why I stole the eggs. I was so hungry, and, and… the wolf, when it’s hungry…« It broke off, apparently unable to speak any more.

William didn’t know what to say either. This was a possibility he had never considered - that the wolf himself was terrified of his full-moon, beastly self, that-

He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t.

»When… when our village was attacked…« the wolf finally continued, still so very quiet, and it was all William could do to listen. »My father died trying to protect me from - from being bitten. My mother couldn’t even look at me, after.« The tears were gone from its voice now, as if they were all spent. »I know why you think I’m a monster, I really do. I am. I am. I just… I just wish I weren’t.«

Now William had to look at him, look into those big, too-young eyes, for once not fearful, but filled with a resignation that was somehow worse.

He was too young for this.

»Try and get some sleep, pup,« William said, unable to think of anything better, and only realizing a moment later what had just slipped past his lips.

The wolf was still staring at him when there was a forceful knock at the front door.

[justheretobreakthings]

Whumpmas in July: Day 26

@whumpmasinjuly

What’s a memorable moment that gave you whumperflies?

Hohohohoooo, boy, do I have a lot of these.

The first one that I gotta bring up is one that I know I’ve mentioned once before on this blog, but my Whump Awakening was definitely Prince Philip in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. I can distinctly remember watching the scene in which he gets captured and tied up and gagged by Maleficent’s minions and realizing just how delightful it was to observe.

I’m primarily a Voltron blog, and have been since making this account, and VLD has given me some fantastic whump moments, but the special mention goes to “The Blade of Marmora”, which is the episode that secured Keith as my new favorite whumpee because, damn, seeing him take that intense physical beating and then immediately following it with just as intense an emotional beating is just so *chef’s kiss*, and “The Black Paladins”, which is so angsty and intense and I have rewatched the fight between Keith and not-Shiro so so many times. It’s just as good on fiftieth re-watch.

Earlier in this event I talked about how Bonanza was a big part of my introduction to the whump community, and there were some fantastically whumpee episodes in that series that got plenty of re-watches from me, but my favorite is “My Brother’s Keeper”. Look, if you are a whump fan and are into protective-big-brother dynamics, that episode is a must-watch. It’s just a cavalcade of great whump tropes: animal attacks, gunshot wounds, infections, feverish delirium, accidentally hurting a loved one, heaps of guilt, medical help being out of reach, at-home surgery with no anesthesia, robbery, home invasion, whumpee being carried and cradled by caretaker. All in a single episode.

One show that I know I haven’t talked a whole lot about here on this tumblr - hell, I’m not entirely sure if I’ve ever even mentioned that I’m a fan of it - is the 2003 Teen Titans series. But if you have seen the show, you probably already know which episode I’m about to give a shoutout to. “Haunted” is probably the darkest episode of the series, and my absolute favorite from start to finish. Robin takes more of a beating in this episode than any other, spending the whole episode trapped by paranoid hallucinations of a villain he thought had been defeated, while his teammates can’t see what he’s seeing and are sure that he’s lost it.

Another case of the darkest episode of a series being an absolutely fantastic whump source is the Danny Phantom episode “The Ultimate Enemy”. I know it’s a fan-favorite as well, which makes sense as I know a lot of the modern fandom for that show is made up of whumpers, but the whole evil future aspect of it all was wonderfully bleak, and it’s the most beaten-down and terrified we get to see the title character in the whole series.

Last but not least, gonna give a shoutout to a moment that accounts for half of the posts in my Irondad and Spiderson tag here on my tumblr. I am, of course, talking about Peter Parker’s “death” in Tony Stark’s arms in Infinity War (it’s been three years, it’s not a spoiler anymore, right?) The actors’ performances in that scene is amazing, but I want to give special mention to the sound design in the scene. The silence in the scene’s background broken only by sounds of wind and the crumbling of Peter’s body when he disappears make the dialogue and the cracking, teary voices stand out so perfectly. Good sound design can really take an angsty moment from A to A-plus, and this is a perfect example.

[bumpthumpwhump]

Snippets from in the cellar

This is my first piece with original characters/content that I’m posting anywhere ever (so please let me know your thoughts) but when I saw this prompt (see below) I knew I had to write something. The only trigger warnings for this would really be: held captive with injuries, a little swearing and heavy angst, smaller reference to non-con if you squint hard enough to see it, so if that’s not your thing then please don’t read. Story under the cut. 

This is from a prompt I saw by @whumpthencomfort (I tried to tag you for credit but it wouldn’t find your blog):

“The whumper lives in a nice suburban street where nothing bad ever happens and keeps the whumpee in their basement a secret from their family. One day, during a neighbourhood barbecue, the whumpers kid and couple of their friends break into the basement expecting to find alcohol - only to discover the terrified, traumatised whumpee who had just about given up hope that anyone was going to save them.”

He’s jerked into consciousness from the impact to the side of his face and the breath being forced from his chest as he’s thrown to the floor, with his hands tied behind his back he had no way to lessen the impact or protect his already bruised body. Drowsily he looks around and takes in the room he’s lying in, a wine cellar, he realises. As his eyes try their best to adjust to the bright overhead lights and tries to shake off the drug in his system, he feels chains being fastened around his ankles “wha… what?” He asks, his mind struggles to keep pace and make sense of what’s happening. He’s no stranger to waking up from being high but this is too different.

The rough voice comes from behind him as he feels chains being wrapped around his bare wrists “Shut the fuck up” he’s told as the zip tie that had been securing his wrists is cut off, the knife nicks the side of his wrist.

He weakly protests as he tries to wriggle away from the man “N…no… you can’t…” but he’s cut off by a thick cloth gag being put between his lips and tied at the back of his head.

He feels the mans breath on his ear as he leans in close “Oh but I can… I can do whatever I want now…” the man trails off as words send a chill down his spine, almost as though he’s pausing for effect… it’s followed up with a tug on the gag, it pulls at his mouth as he’s told “There, that’ll keep you nice and quiet.” The man pats the side of his face and it sends his world spinning again. He thinks that he should’ve seen this coming, that they should’ve been more careful. He knows he can’t let this happen, so he takes as deep a breath as his bruised ribs will allow and tries to scream. It comes out in the form of a muffled cry, he’s still too weak to make it count. He works to regain his breath.

His attention is drawn towards the door to the cellar, where the man stands chuckling as he shrugs and tells him matter of factly “Go ahead, scream as much as you want, no-one would hear you even if you weren’t gagged.“ As the man turns and pulls the door open, from his position on the ground he can blearily see that it leads to a smaller room with another solid looking door. The man turns back and reaches his hand towards the light switch “I’ll give you some time to rest and think about why you’re here.” He then smiles and tilts his head as he adds “oh and I’d try not to fall asleep if I were you, you might be have a concussion” as he flicks the switch and closes the door behind him, the room plunged into darkness and the sound of the locks on the door turning echo through the room along with it’s captives shaky breaths.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He’s sitting on his mattress against the wall eating the sandwich he’d been brought, he doesn’t know how long he’s been down here, he’s lost count of how many times he’s asked this, how many times they’ve been through this routine now. He can’t tell how long he’s been here for, but he’s betting it’s been a while. In a show of desperation he sighs and asks the man sitting opposite him “Please, Paul… I won’t tell…” he interrupts the story about the mans family, the trophy his daughter had won at school yesterday.

Rolling his eyes at he stands, his captor asks “How many times?” Gesturing around the room with his hand extended he continues in sorrowful tone with an underlay for warning “…Do we need to get rid of these again… start from the beginning?”

At those words his mind flashes back to the last time he’d tried to escape, not long after he’d been captured, when he’d tried to overpower his captor and he had to start fresh, being drugged twice a day, having to behave and show Paul that he wasn’t a threat… all so that he’d get his mattress and lamp back. He never thought he’d be grateful for, or treasure, two small things like these. He’d do anything to not be forced to go through withdrawal tied up in the dark on a cold stone floor again. He’s snapped back to reality by a questioning “Well do we?”

Quickly he utters “No I’m sorry… I, I won’t ask again” as he moves into the middle of the mattress in an attempt to stop it being taken, the chain connecting his ankle to the bolt in the wall rattling as it moves with him.

The smile that spreads across that face that he’d love to punch again manages to stir up a burning hatred in his chest, it’s a feeling he didn’t know he was still capable of feeling for the man he’d never thought could harm him, the same man who has managed to reduce him and his world to this existence in this room. He receives a nod “Good…” as they both move back to their original positions, him sitting against the wall as he resumes eating, and the man sitting back down on his chair that he brings in with him, but higher than him, always higher than him.

The next thing the man says feels like a punch to the gut “Besides, no-one’s really missed you…” He pulls back from the bite of the sandwich he was about to take, his hands falling to his lap and his eyes following them, he unconsciously winces as he looks at the scars around his wrists, the sandwich falls to the floor. It can’t be true, he knows there’s at least one person that would still miss him. He opens his mouth to say something as he looks up, any kind of cutting reply would be fine, but all he can do is take a breath as the words die before they’ve even been formed, he looks back down to his lap. He shakes his head in place of the words he can’t say. Almost as though he’s speaking out loud anyway, he hears “They’ve all moved on… moved away…” the voice grows closer and he sees the boots in front of him stop at the edge of his mattress “and when they come home? You’re not even mentioned anymore…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When he wakes up he realises he’s on the stone floor again, he’s not sure how long he’s been out for this time. Willing his arms to work and carry him this time, he manages to crawl the rest of the short distance to the wall and slowly prop himself up against it, though by the time he’s managed it his vision is fading at the edges again and it hurts too much to sit up, there’s too much pressure on that place he’d never known could hurt like this until he woke up in this room… In fact, everything hurts more than it did before he’d moved. As he gingerly eases himself back down to a lying position, he looks around the room slowly, but doing both things at the same time still makes him dizzy. There’s not much to see anyway from the tiny beam of dull light sneaking in from under the door, but he knows his mattress, water and lamp will be gone. He instantly dismisses his idea of using his shirt to wipe the blood from his eye, he couldn’t manage to get the damn thing off his body anyway.

As he settles on the floor and wills his body to stay as still as it possibly can he silently curses himself… he’s not quite sure whether it was the smugness of that voice, or just the words that Paul had spoken that made him jump up and punch the man under his chin, or whether it’s just that he’s finally snapped and doesn’t really care whether he lives or dies anymore… Either way he knows it was a stupid mistake, he’d barely had time to think about his next move before he was jumped on and pinned down to the mattress “Stupid fucking mistake…” the stern words whispered in his ear somehow felt like they were being screamed as the punches started. He knows he blacked out after he half turned round and was hit on his chest and face with part of the chain that connected his ankle to the wall… he can hazard a good guess what happened next as he takes stock of each ache and pain in his body. He knows he won’t be walking or standing for a while.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He wakes with a start as he hears the first door being opened carefully, he knows what’s coming next, and his breath quickens as much as the battered body will allow it to. He can’t have the drugs, not now, not like this. He knows he won’t last, and for the second time in his captivity he thinks maybe it’s better that he doesn’t come out of this anyway…

The door to the cellar opens slowly, pulling him back from spiralling, it lets in more light, and the footsteps stop in the doorway from the sound. They’ve done this dance once before, and this time he can’t bring himself to look up, what’s the point, he’s accepted his fate, probably couldn’t fight back even if he wanted to… he can hardly breathe without it hurting. His body seems to have a different idea though, as he automatically pushes himself up a little and scoots back, subconsciously moving until he’s propped up with his back is against the wall and he’s squashing down a pained groan from the movement.

Its the sharp intake of breath from the doorway that finally makes him look up, but it’s not the silhouette that he’s become so familiar with that’s standing there now. “I… you… I… b-but… no…” the figure in the door stumbles over the words, and he knows now that he’s officially lost it because it can’t be… Paul said they’d all moved on, moved away… and the voice sounds shocked to see him… Then he realises what this is, that this is the final play in the cruel game that Paul’s been playing for however long he’s been kept down here.

Ignoring the aches that explode everywhere on his body, he pushes his body to curl into a ball because this is the thing that will finally break him, and he’ll hide from it for as long as he can. The footsteps come closer, and they sound almost tentative as they come to a stop before him, almost where Pauls had stopped at the edge of the mattress. He curls tighter into himself and manages to croak out “nnn… no… p-please?” as he shakes his head slightly and the world spins around him as the edges of his vision go dark.

He knows he’s fading as he slides down the wall and meets the ground, faintly hears the far too concerned voice calling the name that he’s not been called in who knows how long, his name… “Sebastian stay with me!” But he can’t make himself stay awake, his eyes close as the world fades away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If anyone is interested in more from this, I kind had a whole universe in my head while I was writing, so I have a few ideas for other stories, so just let me know :) - Also let me know your thoughts on this one! Thank you for reading!

[loxxxlay]

@maidenofmidguard tagged me to do the Tap Game :D

Tap game by @bad-behavior

1. List your top three whump tropes and tag people.

2. Whoever gets tagged gets to say how they feel about your top three tropes.

3. After finishing that, they can list their top three tropes, and the tagging cycle goes on!

So here are @maidenofmidguard's top 3 tropes and my thoughts on each:

1) big strong guy getting put in a cage abd getting touched .. taken around on aleash .. the whumper exhibiting him, where everyone can touch and inspect the goods of our gut fights but he cant because he has secrets to keep and people to protect. So he is tsken advantage of. He is the party favor being passed around.

um..... -looks self-incriminatingly at the hints of this trope in my fic on our terms- im not turned on right now, UR turned on right now alsd;khg;lashdglaskhg

2) sick fic sick fic. Big strong dude who never gefs sick is now sick. People realizing belatedly that he is seriously sick and are surprised to see that he needs help. People fanning pver him .. kissing him on his head while he burns up in fever.

i likeeeee this, for sure. i def prefer the "weaker" dude getting sick with this exact trope moreeeeee, but i'm not one to complain about my strong bae getting sick either. * _ * (also you can always make them both sick mwahahaha)

3) the strong-willed whumpee made submissive in front of his old friends and family. Better yet the family has given up whumpee to the whumper as a last ditch resort to keep thier kingdom safe.

"being made submissive in front of his old friends and family" is literally The Shit and i will die for it. like the absolute humiliation and embarrassment. While this is very much not a Walking Dead blog (yet.... >.>), I will say that when Daryl literally was "the help" when Negan first visited Alexandria, and Rick had to silently watch Daryl be treated like a total fucking slave in order to keep Alexandria safe, like.... Daryl/Rick is not usually sexy to me, but I definitely had a Thing happen in that moment lmfao. so this trope? yeah. Please. Yes.

Alright now it's time for my top 3 favorites:

And good fucking lord I'm already struggling, so we are going to just... name 3 favorites, and not necessarily top favorites, because let's be honest, my whims change daily if not hourly.

Mutual noncon/dubcon.

Shocking, right? It's hilarious because back in my wee fandom days in 2014ish, I would never read mutual noncon "fuck-or-die" scenarios because they didn't do it for me. And now look at me.

I think that it works best for me when there is still a semblance of a choice. Like where full-tilt death is not magically imminent, but the consequences are still implicit and severe. Even if they are rushed, panicking, etc, they still need to make a deliberate conscious clear-headed choice at some point to have sex with each other, even though the situation is nonconsensual. (As opposed to like... being in heat/mindless or whatever.)

I espeeeeecially like it if One of them makes the choice moreso than the other. Like, for example, the Character A can't stand to see Character B face the consequences, so Character A chooses for them both, even though Character B might have preferred the consequences. It's still mutual noncon/dubcon -- neither of the characters wanted it -- but one character is still consenting more than the other, and that fucking kills me guys, it really really does.

Caretaker is an accidentally (or perhaps overprotectively) bad caretaker and makes things (temporarily) worse.

This is a Big Thing I do in my original fiction, but I've only touched on it very briefly in fanfiction I think. I could definitely do that more... For example in "Forget Me Not, Remember Still" (or whatever i called that shit lol), the first chapter where Thor and Loki receive a note from the Grandmaster, Thor is so angry and upset (and scared) that he starts yelling--and since Loki is nearby, he feels himself to be the target for the anger. Not in an abusive way, of course, because Thor is trying his absolute best, but in a way that isolates Loki when he really, truly needs affection. Which, unfortunately, makes this trope the inciting incident of this fic lmfao. Sorry, Thor~~

In an original fiction of mine, one of the characters is trying to help a rape survivor recover, but one of his strategies is to forbid her from leaving the house (because she might get raped again, who knows). Which is like ... re-traumatizing ... because even while the overprotection is well-intentioned, it strips her of her choices and agency again.

I also would like to recommend @veliseraptor 's Will to Live because I always do when I get a chance, and it has so much of this trope in it. I feel like "caretaker learns through trial and error how to be a good caretaker" is literally the thematic element of this fic which is what makes it so appealing to me. :')

Brain fucked-uppery resulting from some kind of abuse.

Um, so first of all, Moment of Peace is this. All because Thor, in Infinity War, had his head literally start to be melted by Thanos, like.... the aftermath of that whump was ROBBED from me, and I am angry.

I especially like this when it is a character who has never experienced whump in their life lmfao, because they're so Tough... Because it terrifies them, they don't know what to expect, they don't know if it will get better, and they're just in a primal state of panic and paranoia and it's great. (aka Thor).

But then again, I also especially like this trope when it is a repeated pattern of behavior that is always constantly on their mind and causing them a long-term dimmer state of panic and paranoia which is also great (aka Loki).

I also like this trope when it causes kinda... a distortion of reliability/an unreliable narrator kinda deal. Like again, in The Walking Dead, a recent episode explored this trope with the character Princess, and I'm just like * _ * More more more.

Alright, it's been a long time, but hopefully you all remember how this goes. I hate tagging people. It makes me feel bad. So instead of handpicking usernames, I'm just going to tag all of you.

And when I say I am tagging all of you, I literally mean ALL OF YOU. If you have eyeballs reading this shit, you are fucking tagged. If you have eardrums vibrating with this shit, you are fucking tagged. I am unsure of how else you could be perceiving this shit, but if you are, you are fucking tagged. There's no "technically" about it. This is a fully legitimate tag, and it includes you. Go, be free, and do the meme if you'd like to.

[whumblr]

Return to sender

A first teasing continuation for We’re gonna have so much fun

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog

-

Another letter.

The team gathered around. They’d recognised the handwriting from last time. From when the small package had given off a strange smell and its corner was stained in brownish blood. Even after receiving that little reminder, Whumpee had been determined to go after Whumper next. And now, this new letter would maybe give their team a hint as to why they hadn’t returned yet. An unwelcome hint.

This time however, there was no blood, no rotten smell. Just a clean envelope. The only hint that it contained something other than paper maybe was the little bump right in the middle.

No one wanted to open it. Some of the members lingered in the doorway, or sat at a distance with their back turned. They didn’t want to see part of their team member again, but were also too curious to outright leave the room. Or just desperate to get closure.

The leader took the envelope and carefully tore it open.

There was no note. The envelope contained just a single tiny item. It wasn’t bloody or repulsive in any way, but still the tiny object had the power to make the blood drain from the leader’s face.

He turned the envelope over and caught the glistery item. Slowly, he placed it in the middle of the table.

Curses rose up. Fists slammed on the table. Boots stomped from the room. The ones who stayed, too paralysed to move, merely sighed in defeat. Some sobbed. Slowly closed their eyes in resignation.

On the table lay the pristine suicide capsule they had given to Whumpee before they left.

The leader closed his eyes and crossed himself.

“Not sure why you’re doing that,” one of the team members snarled. “It’s not like that capsule is empty.”

The leader opened his eyes. “But one can pray.”

-

Continued here

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

12C, part 12

Part 1 |  Part 2 |  Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |  Part 6 |   Part 7 |   Part 8 |   Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 |

Tag List: @deluxewhump @whumpinggrounds @yet-another-heathen   @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog  @killtheprotagonist

Content Warnings:  immortal whumpee, lady whumpee, captivity, lab whump, dehydration, starvation, exhaustion, temporary character death, sort of dehumanization? or perhaps better stated as disregard for ones humanity

Author’s Notes: I call this chapter ‘I have no clue what I’m doing but I’m trying’. Brought to you by 6 lovely souls. :) Usually I do a deeper edit of these but I’m feeling lazy tonight and really want to get this one up so I can move forward. I was also a little writer’s blocked this week so apologies if it’s not my best work. :\

Also, I think I might post the next set of parts under a new title...picking up where this leaves off, of course! But there’s something nice and complete about there being 12 ‘chapters’ to this, and as you’ll see, the title being named for the room might not apply anymore. ;)  So if you’re on this tag list or watching this series don’t be alarmed if suddenly a new title is there when the next part pops up.

----

Emmeline has been gone before - taken away for testing or left somewhere overnight so they can check for results in the morning.

But this is different.

Everything is gone. The table, the equipment, everything except the camera in the corner. The room is completely dark and empty.

Liv pulls out her clipboard and flips to her page for the room - or, she would, if it was there. She hasn’t been given any checklist, any notes, anything for room 12C. It’s as though no one was ever there.

Slowly she backs out of the room and shuts and locks the door. In her mind she begins frantically skimming through every moment of the day she can remember. Did anyone look at her differently? Say something to her?

This has to be my fault somehow.

Right?

And yet, no one called her to an office or confronted her in the hallway. She came in to work and went about her day as usual. Surely if they suspected her of tampering with a subject, or any other violation, they would take action immediately?

Unless Emmeline is being punished instead of me.

But where is she?

Liv goes through her final routine tasks of the night on autopilot, her mind turning over every worst possible scenario.

Maybe Emmeline was taken to another lab. Maybe there’s an even more top-secret level to this lab that she has no idea about. Or maybe...maybe that bastard Dr. Crafton did something with her…

An additional thought creeps in that Liv refuses to dwell on.

What if she died for good this time?

But that can’t be true. Even at her most fearful and cynical, Liv can’t comprehend the tragedy of Emmeline’s light being snuffed out in this prison after hanging on so long.

She has to be alive somewhere. Suffering, scared, but alive.

But where?

----

In the days that follow Liv performs her magnum opus of pretending things are fine.

On the surface she’s as calm, quiet, and moody as always. Inside she’s constantly paranoid, expecting to be confronted at every turn, pulled into an office and questioned. She’s wary of the researchers and of security, even of her own boss. She over analyzes every look and interaction.

But one, two, three days into the week and nothing has changed except Emmeline being gone and, as of Wednesday evening, a new resident in room 12C. The balancing act in Liv’s mind between ‘I’m so fucked’ and ‘where is Emmeline’ tips in favor of the latter. It’s not as though she can ask someone. So she starts simply...listening.

Her late hours are an obstacle; most of the researchers have left by the time she starts cleaning. But the ones that sometimes stay over tend to be the chattiest when they believe no staff - at least, in their mind, no staff worth acknowledging - are present.

It takes caution and patience, but soon from observations and overheard conversations with her headphones in, Liv manages to piece together what happened.

There are whispers of new subjects, more than they have room for. Frustrated complaints of how the ‘research’ with Emmeline was going nowhere, of failed blood transfusions and transplants. ‘Fascinating but useless’ was how one of them put it. Without results the funding would soon dry up, but selling her to a competitor would be disastrous if the competitor had success where they didn’t.

But that’s as far as Liv gets. A why without a where. They don’t have a room for her or funding to continue research, but they won’t sell her. In a better world they’d let her go, but Liv doesn’t humor that idea for a second.

Her suspicions still linger on Dr. Crafton a little while longer. Considering his newfound enjoyment of torture, she wouldn’t put it past him to ‘volunteer’ to move Emmeline to a private lab of his or something.

This soon disproves itself for her. In the fleeting moments she sees Dr. Crafton he seems irritable, not at all like a man who got exactly what he wanted. Then one evening she overhears him griping about the ‘wasted potential’ of the former subject in 12C and Liv is sure he doesn’t have her.

Any satisfaction she gets from these discoveries is quickly dulled by still not knowing where Emmeline is. Liv keeps showing up, keeps hoping, does her work in spite of the gnawing ache of Emmeline’s absence. All this time Liv was trying to help and comfort her, she didn’t realize how much of a help and comfort Emmeline was in return.

I just want to see her again...

----

A week passes, and then another. Liv still listens, still keeps an eye out, but her hope is fading. No one notices, of course. She was always a little sullen, always kept to herself. As long as she continues to be a good worker, no one bothers her or questions her.

That night is particularly quiet. Most subjects are asleep or keep to themselves. Even the chatty guards in Hall A are bored and end up listening to a sports radio show rather than talk to each other or Liv.

Near the end of her shift Liv makes her way to that floor’s storage room. It’s a small, dingy room with a single lightbulb that barely illuminates all of the shelves that line the walls. Nothing important resides here - not samples or expensive medical equipment. Only cleaning supplies, tools for maintenance, a handful of basic first aid, and obsolete equipment gathering dust, some of which might be older than the building itself.

Normally Liv prefers the supply room on the floor above; it’s a little bigger, a little cleaner. But tonight she’s feeling lazy and settles for this one.

As she’s putting things back on the shelves, she notices something pushed back against the far wall that wasn’t here before. It’s just a crate, long and sturdy but unremarkable. But what piques Liv’s curiosity is its presence here at all. No one uses this room except her, the janitor who fills in on nights she’s off, and sometimes maintenance. Maybe one of the researchers might come looking for something they need, but more often than not this room sits neglected.

Liv kneels beside the crate and feels around for a way to open it. She finds a latch and unclasps it easily, then manages to wiggle the lid up enough to get her fingers under. It isn’t even on that tight, and it only takes a couple pulls to lift it open.

What the fuck?!

She gasps and recoils, falling back and scrambling away from the crate, breathing quickly. Not much gets to her around here, but she was not expecting to open that thing and find a dead body.

Once the initial shock subsides she sits up and brushes her hands on her jeans. This doesn’t make sense. Subjects that die are given autopsies and then incinerated. If it’s here in the facility, why isn’t it in a lab room?

Shaken but determined, Liv scoots closer to the crate and peers in again. It’s hard to make out much in the dim light, but she can tell that the body is...fresh, for lack of a better word, and padded with some kind of loose packing material. She moves up along the box, having to tilt a little to keep her own shadow from blocking her view so she can see the face - 

For several long, silent moments, Liv just...stares. She blinks against the darkness, trying to process what she’s seeing.

“Emmeline?” she says aloud, barely recognizing her own voice. Hands shaking, she takes out her phone and turns on the flashlight.

The face illuminated by the light, gaunt and lifeless, is unmistakably Emmeline’s.

Liv quickly turns off the flashlight and puts her hand over her mouth to suppress a sound of...of…

Of what?

Relief that she found her, or fear that she’s dead dead, or disgust that they stuck her in a box in a storage room like nothing more than a piece of old equipment.

There are too many questions going through her mind and she pushes them all aside. She reaches a shaky hand down and cups Emmeline’s face. It’s cool to the touch, but Liv has seen her share of dead bodies before and something about this is...different. Like her body is lingering in some state between life and death, simply dormant. It’s just a half-assed theory, but it gives her hope.

Liv brushes her thumb over Emmeline’s lips, finding them chapped. There isn’t a mark on Emmeline’s body, and any drugs to put her under would have worn off by now. The most obvious and awful conclusion is that they simply let her die naturally of dehydration, alone in the dark.

A tear slips from Liv’s cheek onto Emmeline’s neck and trickles down out of sight. Liv sits back with a loud sniff and rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “You deserve better than this…”

She slips her hoodie off and leans forward again, draping it like a blanket over Emmeline. Like this, it’s almost easy to believe that she’s just sleeping.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says numbly, “somehow.”

Then she puts the lid back on, stands, and leaves the room.

----

In the time between when she leaves after discovering Emmeline, and when she returns the next day, something shifts in Liv.

The sight of that drawn, still face haunts her dreams. And when she wakes all she can think about is the notion of Emmeline being stored like a piece of furniture only for them to take out and hurt again someday when they have funding or whatever the fuck.

When Emmeline was in one of the lab rooms the idea of trying to help her with guards and cameras around felt impossible. But the storage room...that she can work with.

She waits until the end of her shift before going to the storage room again. She doesn’t even have to act differently or come up with an excuse; she has plenty of legitimate reasons to be in there.

As soon as the door closes behind her she grabs her water bottle from her cart and goes right to the crate. She opens it cautiously, as though not wanting to startle its occupant. But Emmeline hasn’t moved an inch or changed in the slightest since last night.

“Hey,” she says quietly, just like she would when entering room 12C. It feels natural even if Emmeline doesn’t answer.

Liv leans over the crate and tips the water bottle to Emmeline’s lips. She lets just the smallest trickle of water slip in at first, then another, then another. Nothing happens right away, but Liv isn’t deterred. She has no idea how her immortality works, but Emmeline has been ‘dead’ for days now, surely it will take more than a couple sips of water for her body to heal.

She leans one arm on the edge of the crate and rests her chin on her arm. With the other hand she continues slowly pouring water down Emmeline’s parched throat, a little at a time. Pour. Stop. Wait. Look for signs of life. Pour again.

It feels a bit like watering a plant, and also not at all like that. Emmeline is not nearly so replaceable.

When the bottle is empty, she caps it and sits up with a sigh, stretching her stiff shoulders. She can’t help feeling disappointed. She was expecting something to happen. But it’s okay - if it takes time, so be it.

Just as Liv is reaching for the lid, she hears a soft sound. She freezes, arms out, listening intently. It wouldn’t surprise her if it was a rat or something, with the state of this room…

Several silent seconds tick by and she’s starting to believe she imagined it when the sound happens again. A little louder...and close…

Heart pounding, she looks down into the crate. At first glance nothing has changed, but the longer she looks...yes. Yes, she’s sure of it - her hoodie, still draped over Emmeline, is moving ever so slightly with barely-there breaths. When Liv presses her fingers to Emmeline’s wrist, she finds a weak pulse.

Oh my god. Oh my god, it worked.

The soft sound comes again and it is now clear that it’s the sound of a sighing breath. Triumphant as she feels at having done something right for a change, Liv knows things are far from good. Emmeline is in bad shape. This is going to take time.

Liv touches Emmeline’s arm for a moment, watching her face. Little changes apart from the puffs of breath that now escape her chapped lips, but it feels like a victory. Not to mention a big fuck you to the researchers.

“Hang in there,” she whispers. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

It kills her to have to put the lid back on and leave Emmeline in the dark like that. The best she can hope for is that she remains unconscious a little longer. Liv is impatient, she wants to make this all better right now. But for both of their sakes, patience is necessary.

Hang in there, she tells herself, as well.

----

Part of being patient means not going back to the storage room every night. She used to barely use it at all, and she fears too sudden a change in her behavior will draw unwanted attention. It’s one of the hardest things she has ever done, to walk past that room knowing Emmeline is inside and then keep walking.

Still, Liv manages to hold out for a few days before returning. She parks her cart just inside the storage room door; she doubts anyone will enter, but if they do, the obstacle might buy her some time to quickly close the crate.

Emmeline is no longer breathing. Liv expected as much, but it hurts all the same. This time, though. This time will be different.

Once again she feeds her sips of water and soon enough there are signs of life. This time, Liv is prepared with another bottle - this one filled with apple juice.

She cups Emmeline’s head and lifts it a little to give her a sip of the juice. Another, then another. Slow, patient, hopeful. Emmeline’s pulse grows stronger, her breathing more steady.

And then she moans, and it’s a weak, pitiful, broken sound, but Liv is so damn relieved to hear it, because it means she is that much closer to waking.

Liv continues giving her sips of juice, watching her throat bob as she actively swallows it. Suddenly she begins to cough and it startles Liv so much she nearly spills the juice all over her. She quickly pulls the bottle away and sets it aside, her eyes fixed on Emmeline.

Emmeline’s coughs fade into raspy breaths. She groans and shifts uncomfortably. Then finally, finally, her eyes slowly open.

She’s frail and shaky. Her glazed-over eyes flick around, uncomprehending. Her mouth opens as though to speak, but when she tries nothing comes out.

“Emmeline?” Liv says, very quietly.

At the sound of her name, Emmeline’s eyes land on Liv. The recognition on her face is immediate, and Liv can’t help but smile.

“Hey. It’s just me. Here...”

She holds the bottle to her lips again and Emmeline drinks eagerly.

“Careful, not too fast...that’s better...okay I’m going to take it away again, I don’t want you to overdo it…”

She sets the bottle aside again while Emmeline gasps for breath after practically chugging the whole thing down. Liv can’t blame her, and hates to deny her what she so desperately needs, but she also doesn’t want to make her sick.

“Just breathe. You’re okay.” Relatively. “I’ll give you more in a minute.” She reaches down and takes Emmeline’s hand.

“Where…” Emmeline’s voice cracks. She pauses, swallows, starts again. “Where am I?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“...good.”

“The good news is you aren’t in the lab.” Liv gives her a moment to process that before regretfully adding, “the bad news is that you’re still in the building. In...a storage closet.”

Emmeline blinks slowly up at the ceiling, her brow pinched. “What?”

She shifts again and Liv realizes that she’s trying to sit up. Liv instinctively reaches to help, putting a hand on Emmeline’s back - only to withdraw when Emmeline gasps.

“S-sorry, I was just - “

“No,” Emmeline interrupts. “Please - put it back, it was warm…”

Liv remembers how cold Emmeline’s skin was when she found her like this, and this room is just as chilly as the lab. She slowly settles her hand on Emmeline’s back again and helps her ease herself up. It’s hard to resist the urge to touch more - a hand in her hair, an arm around her shoulders - but she doesn’t know whether it would be welcome.

But Emmeline is shivering and she has to do something.

“Here…” she takes the hoodie that has been acting as a blanket for Emmeline these past few days and slips it around her shoulders. “Arms.” Emmeline obediently slips her arms through the sleeves.

When Liv zips it up Emmeline curls her arms up to her chest and presses her face into the cuffs of the sleeves. “Thank you, this is - oh - “

Emmeline’s eyes flutter shut and she sways, nearly dropping back into the crate. Liv steadies her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Shit...hey, breathe, you’re okay…” Maybe sitting her up so quickly wasn’t the best idea.

Taking slow breaths, Emmeline opens her eyes again. She looks so tired in spite of being under for so long. But then, she’s been denied food, water, warmth, proper rest, safety, and the type of weariness living like that brings is bone-deep and not so easily solved.

Her eyes dart around the room - from the old metal shelves to the dim lightbulb to the concrete floor, and heartbroken understanding falls over her face.

“When they put me in this box,” she whispers, looking so empty, so resigned, “I thought they were moving me somewhere. Maybe another lab. I thought within a day or two the lid would come off. But it never did. It was so dark and cold and...and you weren’t there, and…” her lip quivers and she clutches at the cuffs of the hoodie. “I was scared…”

Liv swallows around the lump in her throat, feeling her eyes burn. Those fucking bastards. “I thought they took you away too, at first. Finding you was...kind of by accident. But now that I have...” she steels herself, knowing once she says this, there’s no going back. “...I’m getting you out of here.”

Emmeline looks to her, eyes wide and tentatively hopeful. “You are?”

Liv chews her bottom lip and nods. “I have a plan. I just need you to hang in there a little longer…”

“I can do that,” Emmeline replies, voice wavering. “Please just be careful…”

“I will.”

Emmeline looks half about to cry, half about to pass out. Liv gently nudges at her shoulders, easing her back down into the crate.

“Please don’t take the shirt,” Emmeline whispers as her eyes close.

“I won’t,” Liv promises. “It’s yours now.”

“Thank you…”

A tear slips down her cheek and Liv brushes it away with her thumb. She leaves her hand there a moment for Emmeline to lean into, seeking out every small bit of comfort she can get. Liv wants to give her more, so much more, but she can’t. Not here. Not yet.

“I’ll be back,” she promises as she reaches for the lid. “Just hang on a little longer,” she adds as she lowers it, cloaking Emmeline’s sleeping form in darkness once more.

[whump-softie]

First Friend - Part 9 (Mutt)

Part 8 / Masterlist

Taglist: @looptheloup @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @as-a-matter-of-whump @albino-whumpee @cupcakes-and-pain @unicornscotty @whumpfigure @boxboysandotherwhump @briars7 @girlwithacoolcat @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kiretto-laorentze *it’s a flashback btw sorry*

The day Bird was bought, she was 13. New to her reality, fresh for sale, vultures swept in and got hold of her. Whisked away to a city with tall buildings and hot sidewalks, lead through mirrored rooms and hallways.

Shoved through doors, and dropped at the feet of a person laying on the floor, a boy that couldn’t be that much older then her, who almost looked dead.

A blonde man pushes her closer. “Fix him,” he says.

Bird doesn’t know how. She doesn’t know what’s wrong, she doesn’t know this boy or what’s happening or what she’s supposed to do or—

“Look at me when I talk to you, Two.”

Bird looks up at the number she was told to respond to and meets scary eyes, resting on a face that definitely didn’t look happy. She doesn’t like it when people don’t look happy, it makes her want to do anything she can to help.

“Better,” the man smiles. “Now, fix him.”

She still doesn’t know how, but the man leaves her alone in the room with the unconscious boy, and she still doesn’t know what to do.

Fix him? Okay, fix him. Heal him, or maybe... revive him? Bird kneels down and puts her ear on his chest, listening for a heartbeat that she fortunately finds. She tries a few firm presses with her hands on his chest, but he doesn’t move.

She checks his body for wounds, but finds none. She does find a lot of scars, though. From blades by the looks of them. She shudders. Yeah, she definitely wants to help this boy now. She wants to fix him.

A while passes, and after checking to see if he was breathing—he wasn’t!—she gently opens his mouth and peers inside. Shocked to see something there, she takes a few deep breaths after wiping her hand on her pants, and reaches in.

Her fingers grab a large stone that seemed to be just too big for him to swallow. She gently pulls it out, and startles back against the wall when he coughs violently, spasming to life and sitting up.

A few minutes pass and he catches his breath. Bird doesn’t move, and definitely doesn’t say anything. She holds the stone clenched in her fist for some reason, maybe for protection? She watches him cautiously.

He calms down, and then he glances at her. “...thanks,” he mumbles. Bird only nods. She wants to ask his name, but ends up sitting in silence.

“Were you given a number?” He asks.

Bird hesitates. Yes, she was, but she doesn’t really like it. She nods, and holds up two fingers.

“Two?” The boy asked as if it was a ridiculous name. “Okay, well, I’m One.”

Bird blinks. She guesses that it makes sense, but she didn’t like how he asked for her number and not her name. “My name is—”

“—Don’t,” One interrupts, “don’t tell me. I’m not gonna tell you mine, either. We’re not allowed to know and frankly, I don’t care. It’s number now, got it, Two?”

Two nods along, happy to follow orders instead of fighting for her life or living in fear. She opens her palm and extends her arms, holding out the stone. One sees it and smirks.

“There he is,” he laughs, joking around and reaching for it. “I’ve been looking for him everywhere.”

Two giggles, and One grabs the stone and fiddles with it. He smiles again, but this time there’s sadness behind it. “It’s today’s performance souvenir.”

[comfy-whumpee]

Polycule 2

CN: recovering pet whumpee.

Ellis’s Taglist: @lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektricwhump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @rosesareviolentlyread, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog

Ellis wakes up on the bed between Felicity and Nic. It’s dark outside still; the nights are long right now, and even though Felicity rises early, she’s not usually up before sunrise at the moment. She stays up late to spend time with Nic, after Ellis has become tired and gone to bed.

Bed. It’s soft, so soft he worries about floating away, but he wakes up held. Felicity’s warm arm is draped over his waist, her forehead against his back. Felicity gives good hugs, though she doesn’t like it when he nuzzles. Not like Master.

Nic sleeps on the very edge of the bed, now. Ellis knows it’s because he clings to them otherwise. When he clings to them, they don’t sleep. He’s heard them talking about it.

But they never push him off or send him to the floor. They never even mentioned it. Ever since those awful weeks with the voice, Ellis hasn’t been able to sleep in the dark alone. He reaches for them, to chase away the cold and loneliness of the pitch black in his head.

Felicity is a good enough replacement. Ellis relaxes into her arms, feeling her breath through his thin T-shirt, pooling warm and then damp on his skin.

It’s someone real, who hasn’t left in the night, or in any of the nights before now. She’s something he wouldn’t see at home, where even Master sometimes had to leave him alone.

She’s good.

She’s reliable, careful, and she never pushes him. He doesn’t want to be pushed; he doesn’t want to be a person, like Nic talks about sometimes. If he could just learn some things again, that would be enough. He would be happy like this.

“You awake, pumpkin?”

She picked out a nickname for him that he’s never heard. He thinks that’s nice. He’s surprised that she’s awake, but even more that she’s still holding him.

He nods.

“Let’s get up, so Nic can sleep a little more.”

She lets him go, and cold brushes up his sides, but he rolls off the bed after she does and follows her downstairs. She’s wearing pink flannel pyjamas and she looks really cute in them. They’re not pyjamas like he wears with Master, but he still likes them.

Arriving in the living room, she rubs her arms. “Oh, it’s chilly down here.” She crosses the room and picks up her jumper from last night, taken off when she got too warm sandwiched between himself and Nic. “Here, you must be cold in just your T-shirt, right?”

He nods. He takes the jumper. It’s soft. It had been days before he’d taken off his pyjamas to shower, and weeks before he’d stopped putting them back on again as soon as they were out of the wash. Now, he wears T-shirts and sleep shorts like he used to. They’re not as soft against his skin as Master’s choices, but he endures the heat of the itch. It’s never going to go away.

The wool of the jumper is nearly unbearable. He knows as soon as he puts it on. The fibres scratch against every burn scar. The way it shifts with his movements makes it feel like he’s being burned anew. He doesn’t say a word.

Felicity, of course, can’t see that he’s in pain. She smiles, pleased that he’s not cold. And he’s not, no. He’s burning.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she says. She steps into the kitchen. Ellis stands for a minute, but the feeling on his skin is ever louder without a distraction. He follows her, and kneels in the doorway.

He hears her make a sympathetic, disappointed noise, and assumes she is looking at him.

“Let’s do eggs,” she says, presumably to herself. Nobody bothers talking to Ellis usually. “Four should do it, with enough spare to share with you, if you want some after your toast.”

Talking to him isn’t the same as talking with him. He only nods.

“Fried, scrambled…” Felicity wonders aloud. “Do you know how they like their eggs, pumpkin?”

He knows. Distantly, he knows. “S… Sunny…”

He’s not sure of the next word. Top? Side? Turn?

“Sunny side up it is,” Felicity agrees immediately, not at all bothered by his half-asleep vagueness. “And some toast, do you think?”

Unsure of what to say, whether he’s really being asked, he doesn’t answer. Master talks like this all the time, just keeping him involved without asking him to do anything. Ellis likes it that way. He leans against the doorframe and watches her move, listens to her hum, and it’s safely familiar even while being horribly alien to him.

Footsteps sound on the stairs and he turns his head to see Nic stumbling down, in the midst of a yawn with one hand scrubbing their cheek. “Morning,” they smile at him as they reach the floor. “Sleep okay?”

He nods.

“S’good. Morning ‘Lis.”

“Good morning! Sunny side up, right?”

“Huh? Yeah.”

Felicity turns and gives him a thumbs up, and he smiles at her smile, and wishes she would just pet his hair like Master does.

-

“Go take a nap, boo. We’re gonna play - I dunno what we’re playing.”

Nic blinks, sighs, and nods. Iz pats their back, and they head upstairs with a tired smile Ellis’s way.

He keeps his eyes on the ground, watching them only in his peripheral vision. They’re always so tired, it takes intervention from one of the other two to make them admit it. He knows why, too. They’re trying to hide it from him.

Iz sits down on the sofa, and pats it. He climbs into it, and tucks against her side. “What are we playing, then?” she asks, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “‘Cause I’m in the mood for something shooty.”

Ellis chews his lip, thinking. Hesitantly, he reaches for the computer mouse, and she nods encouragingly. He takes it, and clicks through his library until he finds a game he thinks she’ll like. He double-clicks on it, and it immediately fills the screen with its loading graphics.

“What have I got?”

Iz doesn’t know a thing about video games. She says she played Call of Duty as a teenager, but hasn’t touched one since. But she kept asking about them, asking Ellis for recommendations, and now she comes over most weekends and plays something on his computer, asking him for help pretty much non-stop. She no longer turns the controller to try and move, or looks down at it to check which buttons she’s pressing, but she still doesn’t know what she likes. They’re finding out together.

It’s like the games that Master’s guests used to play, except Ellis picks them, and nobody wins or loses.

Iz looks through the menu screens, eyes studying the screen. She pauses, eyes widening. “Wait, am I playing against people?” There’s a hint of panic in her voice.

Ellis points to an option on the screen, and she selects it. “Training. Right. Thank fuck for that. Wait, so I’m playing with people?”

She cuts a glance his way, and he nods. He smiles encouragingly.

“Okay. Shit, dude, you have a lot of faith in me.” She finds the character select and scroll through the options until she finds a muscular woman with spiky hair and a huge cannon in her arms. She reads through her character’s abilities, tries moving around the pre-match area, and then nods. “Right. Okay. Here goes.”

He snuggles down against her side as she enters the match, ignoring the way the jumper scratches over his skin. She gets lost more than once, but once she finds her way to the action, she turns out to be a pretty good shot. The character she chose happens to be a tank, sturdy and the priority for healing, so she does pretty well.

“Shit!” she exclaims, as she is assassinated at short range. “Oh man, what was that?”

“Ultimate,” Ellis mumbles without thinking. “Strong ability. You’ve got one too.”

“Ohhhh. Okay. Wait, so that’s something to use when I’m in danger?”

“Mm.”

“Got it.”

It’s not like the games with guests he’s done before. No winners or losers, not between himself and Iz. No pain, no mockery. Ellis is the expert, and he teaches her what to do, and her attention stays on her screen and not him.

-

“Did you have an okay day, Ellis?”

He nods against the pillow his head is resting on. His arms are around another pillow, their new attempt to stop him winding around Nic in the night.

They smile. They look less tired now, but still not their usual self. “That’s great. I’m really proud of you for sitting on the sofa today, and sleeping on the bed, too. You’re doing your best, and I see that.”

He is. The rules are different here, but he’s learning them as fast as he can, and trying to follow them. He wants to be good.

“You ready to sleep?”

He nods. He sits up, realising his opportunity: at last, he can go back to being in his pyjamas. He slips his arms into his sleeves, and finally, finally pulls off the jumper. Cool bedroom air washes over his skin, and the burning begins to slowly fade away.

“Oh, hon,” Nic says, and he tries not to flinch, “isn’t that one wool?” They reach out and rub a hand over the material. “Doesn’t that itch against your scars?”

Ellis twitches, looking down at his lap. His hands twist together.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Nic lays a hand over one of his. “Did Felicity hand it to you?”

He nods. Always nodding, useless at talking, a bad pet. Bad company.

“You couldn’t tell her no, huh?”

Nod. Cringe, waiting for the affectionate sigh, the touch and forgiveness for his stupidity.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier. I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

He blinks. Sincere apology. Promise of change. He looks up at them, but they’re not smiling. They’re looking at him seriously, with compassion. “Is that okay?” they ask him softly.

He wants to hug them. He wants to throw himself into their arms and thank them with sweet, tumbling words, and stay there until he falls asleep and dreams of Master.

But he’s been given a pillow. He’s too much trouble. He curls up on his side, the cotton bedding smooth and only a little scratchy on his skin, and he tries to fall asleep.