#i desperately need whumpers stroking whumpees’ hair and pulling them into their chest. cradling them. holding them close.

[b0amagination]

But what’s the point if your whumpee isn’t terrified beyond reason? Scared enough that their whumper has to comfort them and bring them back to reality before they continue torturing them? That the pain wouldn’t even register if not?

[whumpsoda]

Amara - Nevan & Darius

WOHEO Masterlist

Listened to No One Lives Forever by Oingo Boingo while writing this… idk why but a great song for me to write whump to??

Also I think I like this! Sorta proud of it atm <3

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud

cw: vampire whumper, human whumpee, pet whump, memory loss, amnesia, brainwashing

———————————————————————

Lights.

Bright, encompassing, and fluorescent. They stung. They buzzed and beat upon the vibrant white tile flooring, of which numerous pairs of polished shoes clicked atop.

There was talking. Several voices that spouted unintelligible words. He gently stroked someone’s hand, thumb rubbing over wispy hairs. He couldn’t tell who it was, the details of their face blurred and muddled in his brain.

There was crying. Shrill and squeaky, little hiccups scattered in between cries. The ringing of the noise only became louder as it neared, right into his cradled arms. As unlikeable as the sound was, it bloomed warmth in his chest.

Slick tears quickly fell to fabric, dribbling down his chill face. The tiny, unimaginably small thing in his arms mewled and whimpered, its pudgy little face smushing its minute features. He held it tighter, hoping he never had to let go.

And then he spoke. His beaming lips parted, and his throat cracked with the taint of unbridled joy. 

“Amara.”

…

He gripped the doorway urgently, fingers determined and grasp harsh. Nevan whimpered, with his other hand clawing at his head. Fingernails sharply burrowed into his skin, in the desperate attempt to rid his mind of unwanted thoughts.

He needed Master. Whatever was spinning his head in circles, Nevan knew it was bad. Master would be mad, so very mad, but Master could help him. Master would care, he would have to. Nevan wasn’t broken, not yet enough to discard.

His trembling, weak knees buckled as he attempted to make use of them, his muscles wavering and weakening. Nevan’s knuckles made their way into his neatly done hair, pulling thick strands out of their meticulous place in distress. 

He forced his hesitating legs forward, in the direction of the vampire’s library. His joints were tight and heavy, cracking and buckling with every slight movement. 

The dim, yellow light grew across his body as he neared his master’s tight study, the door having been left wide open. Darius’ hazy figure was mere feet away, seated comfortably in his favorite plush leather seat.

The vampire’s frame inched higher as Nevan tumbled to the floor, a pathetic sight. Darius’ gaze didn’t make the slightest shift from the page he was focused on, but even in such a dizzy state Nevan could sense his irritation. 

The human whimpered and whined, stuck in an inescapable frenzy of painful confusion and hurt. The fuss seemed to annoy the vampire just enough to take the slightest of interest. “What do you want?” Darius sneered, flipping carelessly to another crisp page.

Nevan gazed up at his master’s beautiful face, kneeling before the vampire. His head swayed, contorting his vision with disorientation and muddling the sight.

“Mm, um, Ma- Master, n- need help,” Nevan clasped his slender hands together, dizzily begging to his owner. “Fix, fix please, fix, bad, bad…” Nevan shook his head frantically, as if to signify that was the cause of his anguish.

Darius finally looked down to him, just to get a glimpse and scoff at the sore sight. He quickly turned back to his reading. “What have you done now?”

Nevan shivered in disgust with himself, distraught over his own disappointing behavior. “Please, um, head, um, re- um, remember, I think, fix please, Master,” he stammered, goosebump covered skin trembling. “Hurgg, hur- hhurghts!”

Darius glared, sighing with discontent as his thrall clutched his throbbing head. Interrupting Nevan’s pleas, he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Shush.” Nevan’s lips quickly snapped together. “What an nuisance you continue to be.”

He disapprovingly watched the man writhing on the floor, who dug his own fingers into his scalp. “How could you have possibly managed to remember yet again?.” Nevan whined between his cries, guttural and pained. 

Again? This wasn’t the first, but one of many?

He didn’t mean to be so bad, he never did. He wanted so very badly to please, to hear Darius’ voice wash over him with sugary praises when he managed to do something right for once. More than anything he strived for the pleasure of his master’s voice in the few times he was satisfied, and yet Nevan rarely earned the privilege of hearing it.

He needed help to be better, and Darius was the only one who could do such a thing.

“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry, please, Master, please,” he insistently begged, flimsily clawing at Darius’ beige pant leg.

His head throbbed and pulsed with sickly affliction, and the blurred out glimpses of a hard to reach memory refused to let go of his head. His face was wet, slick tears collecting at his shaven chin, and a disgusting drip of snot fell from his nostril.

Darius looked as if he may throw up. Nevan sure felt like it. “How do you keep doing this? How can your tiny little brain continue to thwart me?” He leisurely hooked a finger below Nevan’s chin, dirtying his skin with the thrall’s salt tears. Nevan submitted eagerly to the gesture. “How repulsive.”

Nevan snapped his eyes and mouth shut, struggling a thick gulp, praying for the cease of his ugliness. As soon as his eyelids were shut though, the bright room was back, plaguing his mind. The lights, the voices, the child swaddled in his arms. 

Maybe he wanted to hold onto it. Just a little. For just a fleeting second, he wished to relish in the foreign, unfamiliar moment of another life. For just a chance, he could ignore the fact he knew he couldn’t.

But it hurt. Burning, seering pain that ripped his brain in two, a frenzied wail racing from his throat. “Please, please, Master- Master-!” He shoved his way between Darius’ legs, clawing and pulling desperately at the seated man’s shirt.

Darius, amidst the frantic and hysteric behavior of his thrall, used one hand to grip Nevan’s wrist, and the other to nest in the human’s hair. 

Nevan welcomed the touch, no matter how harshly Darius’ fingers clenched his skin or tugged his hair. Any semblance of contact was gladly welcome, especially if it was from his master.

“Hush, pet.” Darius purred, leaning down close. “Quiet your little mind for me. Calm and relaxed, and oh so quiet. Quiet as a little mouse.” He hummed, warm breath beating from his nose.

Darius let Nevan’s numbing limb fall to the floor, slipping his thumb instead to the thrall’s quivering lip. He brushed against the moist skin, causing Nevan’s heart to shiver with pleasure. 

Master could be gentle. When he cast one of his sweet, easily addictable spells over his thrall, his voice softened and soothed, pleasant words easily subduing Nevan by the ear. When he took pity over his stupid thrall, he could choose to be gentle.

“So nice and quiet. Just like your feeble brain. So very, very quiet. Docile, obedient and empty.” Nevan could already feel his brain dissipating, including the specific thought that had haunted his brain just a moment ago. It continued to linger, but was being drowned out in favor of his master’s mollifying voice.

“Let the quiet take hold, getting rid of the bad thoughts. The terrible thoughts. The unnecessary memories that hurt.” Nevan nodded along with the hypnotic suggestions.

He would gladly take any chance to rid himself of such things. His cheek smushed up against the vampire’s thigh, head becoming drowsily light with eyelids threatening to drop.

“You like the silence, right?” He did. When he could sit, blank and empty, and let Master make all of the decisions for him. 

“Mm, um… like…quiet…” Nevan whispered, vocals lowering with his mind. “Make, please… make brain… quiet…”

Darius huffed a stifled chuckle, finding humor in the pitiful wants of the man. “Let me tear those pesky memories away, and you’re brain will be so very nice and quiet. So quiet, now. Calm and relaxed and quiet, giving the bad thoughts away to Master so they can never return. A good boy doesn’t remember, he keeps his mind nice and silent.”

Nevan craved to be good, and yet he hesitated, just for a moment. Did he really want to let go of the dreamlike, hazy memory he had uncovered? The one that filled his heart with a pleasant beat? The one that at the same time twisted with an unexplainable agony in his stomach, and a searing ache in his head?

A dull, wide smile spread across Nevan’s lips, as he allowed the pleasurable, heavenly quiet cotton to fill his mind with open arms. It’s what Master wanted. It’s what he wanted.

He released the memory from his mind’s weak grip, letting if slip easily from his brain, disappearing by Darius’ whims where it would never come back. Nevan didn’t mind that. Whatever he had remembered, to distant to reach now, it hurt too much to keep around.

The sensation of letting go of the insignificant was almost like paradise, fluttering his heart and clouding his body with pleasant vibrations of gratification.

Nevan melted into Darius’ leg, jaw falling slack and mind falling deeper into an empty silence. Darius plopped his back against the chair with a scoff, irritatedly picking back up his book.

After however long of mindless staring, Nevan looked back up to his owner, delighted eyes draped by the tired lids, his cheeks gumming with his smile.

He couldn’t remember why he was there, kneeling contently at Master’s feet. Why his face was coated with drying wet, or why his hair and dress had been agitatedly tussled with.

He couldn’t remember much at all. He didn’t need to, and he usually didn’t. He knew all he needed to.

He was at the floor below his Master, where he always had been and always would be.

[whumpinggrounds]

Hide n Seek

sooo this doesn’t have a title but Liam came into my head and would not leave so? here we go? 

lmk if you like it or you hate it or want to see more. or if you have a title or anything to say or for any reason at all :) talk to me!!

CW: failed escape, escape attempt, environmental whump, big whumpee, tiny whumper, female whumper, nonconsensual drug use, drugged whumpee, scrapes and bruises, gaslighting, uhhh i forget what else. nonconsensual touching but it’s also nonsexual

Dark branches tear at Liam’s skin hard enough to draw blood, but he won’t stop running. On either side of him, trees loom up, huge and bristling with needles. The ground tilts sickeningly under his pounding feet, and as he slips and skids over icy ground Liam throws his body from side to side, trying to dodge the obstacles that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere. He’s pulling it off – barely – and then a towering red spruce appears out of nowhere. One of its lower branches, thick around as a lead pipe, catches Liam in the side of the head and sends him reeling.

Liam lands on his knees, breath whooshing from his lungs. The blow to his temple makes his head spin worse than it already was, and his whirling vision isn’t doing any favors for his roiling stomach. An unbearable heaviness in his limbs makes him long to stop, rest, maybe lie back on the frozen, muddy ground and let the blessed chill ease the fever heat in his brow.

As the desperate, exhausted thought crosses his mind, a faraway sound reaches his ears.

“Lavender’s blue…dilly-dilly…lavender’s green…when you are king…dilly-dilly…I’ll be your queen…”

The words are sung in a voice that’s high and light and almost fey. The sound stops Liam’s heart, makes ice water run through his veins. Dashing frightened tears from his eyes, Liam scrambles to his feet, ignoring the bleeding scratches, the ache in his bruised and frozen knees. Behind him, the voice drifts piercing and eerie through the trees, and, driven before it like a sacrificial lamb, Liam picks himself up and crashes onward.

Head reeling, body aching, so sick to his stomach he spends every step fighting not to vomit, Liam runs. He runs until he slips and falls, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of himself, mark bruises on his skin. Then he gets up and runs some more, staggering, faltering, missing steps, head empty of any instinct besides move forward, get away. The headlong sprint through the woods feels like it lasts forever. Snatches of song reach Liam’s ears, distorted and giggly. The forest rears up on every side like so many dark green walls – towering large, endless in every direction. Liam’s ears are ringing, his throat is dry, he can hear his own breath heaving unevenly in his chest. The terror in him is so raw and real that he can almost taste it, salt and iron, blood on his tongue. He’s choking on tears as he staggers onward, but scared as he is, all he can think is what if his sobs are too loud?

When Liam sees light through the trees, he thinks he’s dreaming. Stumbling forward, hardly daring to believe, he feels new hot tears spill down his face. Like a drowning man, he stretches his arms toward salvation, straining as if it’s something he can hold in his hands. Then he’s stumbling again, toppling forward, knees and then hands and then body kissing pavement.

Unable to stop himself, Liam sobs in simple, blessed relief. Pavement. The ground beneath him hard and unforgiving, solid and uniform. Above him, big plate glass windows spill yellowy light into the gathering darkness. The miracle of sidewalk, of concrete, of buzzing phosphorescent light!

Liam is weeping like a baby into his scratched up, icy hands. Now that he’s horizontal and staying there, now that the adrenaline has done just about all it can for his body – now, Liam starts to let go. His body feels both distant and incredibly close. He can feel every individual bit of concrete against his skin, and he can feel himself buzzing against the inside of his skin, and there’s a cloudiness in his head, a big and growing white threatening to envelope him, leave him blissfully out and unaware.

“What in the - ? Son? What the hell is wrong with you, son?”

The voice is gruff, incredulous, more than a little suspicious. Peering up through hazy eyes, Liam sees an older man coalesce into a hazy double-focus, bearded and grizzly as his tone suggests. The flannel-clad bear of a human recoils at the sight of the tears on Liam’s face, lip curling as he takes in Liam’s disheveled appearance.

“H-he-e-elp,” Liam manages, one hand reaching up, wavering and buzzing static in his vision. Even to his own ears, his voice wavers, rises and falls, distorted by hoarseness and God knows what else. “I n…need hel-l-l-p.”

Narrowing his eyes, the man continues to regard Liam with blatant doubt. Liam tries to morph his face into something acceptable, an expression that’s beseeching without being desperate or deranged. His muscles respond slowly, sluggishly. He can’t remember how to manipulate his face. Giving up, Liam leaves his mouth slack and just looks up, inches a little closer, pushing his body over the pavement, ignoring the way the cement rasps against his skin. He doesn’t want to try standing, yet.

Strange things are happening to the man’s face – his cheeks bloat, blow up grotesquely as he talks. His eyebrows, thick dark beetles, worm and writhe over his deep-set eyes, which are more like holes than real eyes. He’s towering over Liam, so tall the man on the ground can’t help but shrink a little bit against the pavement. His mouth is moving and Liam watches it with a dull kind of fascination, forgetting to pay attention to the words that emerge as shapeless sounds from that dark cave of a mouth.

“Help,” Liam tries again, seeing the way the word feels on his tongue. It sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Huh…help?”

“Boy? What is wrong with you, boy?”

The man is waving his hand around in front of Liam’s face, looking for some kind of a reaction. When Liam just keeps staring hazily up, the man shakes his head. He starts talking, but the words dip and circle around Liam’s head, refusing to find his ears, refusing to find his brain. Every so often a word or two comes through – a revelation.

“…fucking cops…”

“Hellllp,” Liam whispers, turning his head to rest one hot cheek against the concrete. His head is pounding so bad it makes him feel sick. Or maybe he just feels sick. Either way, he’s wrung out, exhausted, ready to be done. Liam is tired. He gives up. He’s ready to be done.

Shutting his eyes to try to block out the loud and angry spinning world, Liam forces words out as best as he can make them. “Pl-l-l-e-e-eease. Please.” In his chest, he feels a little hitch come with the word, a shaky breath that prefaces a whimper. The sound is so small, so utterly pathetic. Liam didn’t know he could make a sound like that. “Ple-ease help me.”

The man squats down now to peer a little closer at Liam, at the young man laid out flat on the ground, not even trying to get up. “…what is…come from…”

The words aren’t landing with any greater frequency, nor are they making much sense, but Liam imagines he hears a grudging warmth in the tone that wasn’t there before. Maybe concern, instead of suspicion. Maybe aid, instead of exasperation. He lets himself slit his eyes open, see the hazy outline of the figure above him, leaning in. He lets himself hope.

Then he hears the gasp from behind him, long and loud, high and flighty and dramatic. Suddenly, Liam can’t breathe. He shuts his eyes again, trying to block the nightmare out, but it’s too late. She’s already here.

She throws herself down beside him, drapes herself on top of him, small hands roaming from his broad shoulders down to his waist, as if checking that he’s still whole. She’s so small. She’s always been so small. Doesn’t make sense that she can be all over him, everywhere at once when she’s so…damn…small.

“Philip!”

She trills it, sweet as any songbird. There are tears in her voice, real tears, and a burbling wet kind of laugh of relief that would tug at the heartstrings of anyone who had a heart. “Oh God, Philip, oh, don’t scare me like that.” She presses a warm kiss to his temple and Liam groans out loud. “Oh, sweetie. Oh Philip. Oh.”

One finger traces down the side of his face. The feeling comes through hideously clear and sharp. If it were a picture, it’d be Technicolor, while the rest of the world scrapes by in staticky black and white. Liam presses his face harder into the concrete, wanting to escape, to sink through, to disappear. She picks up his head and cradles it with one little hand.

“…know this…?”

Liam wishes, more than he’s ever wished for anything before, to understand the words of the man standing over them. Instead, the man remains indistinct, distant, unreachable, while every word she says rings loud and perfect in his ears.

“Philip is my brother,” she explains, voice so sweet it conjures honey on the tongue. “He’s…he’s…well, he’s not right.”

“…see that…”

“Well.” A firm but gentle hand smoothing over his wild hair. “We don’t know what exactly it is that’s…wrong.” Locked inside his head, Liam is screaming. All that emerges from his mouth is a low, indistinct moan. Above him, Delilah chatters on, her voice taking on a tragic tone. “We suppose it could be genetic. Or it could be…well, he was in a bad way with drugs, my brother.” She strokes his back, a long, possessive touch. “It’s not his fault.”

The man above them grunts. His voice is still so distant, coming in and out like radio waves. “…damn fool thing…cold.”

“I try. I really do try. He’s just…he gets away from me sometimes, I guess.”

“…huge motherf…little thing like…”

A laugh, carefully calibrated to sound just a little forced. “Philip is my brother.” Another long, tender caress down his back. Liam pants into the pavement, head spinning. “I love him. Of course I’m going to look after him. I have to.”

“…need help?”

Sprawled out on the ground, Liam heaves a dry sob. Those words, words he wanted to hear so badly just minutes before, now offered to the exact wrong person. The conversation goes on above him, but Liam can’t waste his focus listening to it anymore.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Liam takes stock of his aching body. His knees are bruised and sore, his body scratched all over. He’s exhausted and cold and his muscles feel distant, tingly and out of touch. Even lying on the ground, his head pounds and spins. If there was anything left in his stomach, he’d definitely have thrown it up by now. All he wants is to stay where he is and rest. He wants to feel right again, in control of his body and his mind. He wants to give up, give in, be allowed to sleep and heal and rest. Liam just wants this to be over.

But he can’t just yell surrender and expect Delilah to leave him alone. She’s hopping to her feet now, standing to shake the stranger’s hand. If he has a last chance, this is it, so Liam grits his teeth. Dredging up every last bit of meager strength, he places his palms on the ground beneath him and pushes up. His arms are shaky, and nearly give out, but he manages to slump into a sitting position before his strength fails.

From his place sitting on the pavement, Liam can peer up pitifully at the two people above him. The flannel-wearing man is facing Liam, which means Delilah is facing away from him. He has a window, a precious small amount of time, in which he can just maybe make his escape. Swinging his head to the side, Liam examines the storefront he’s ended up outside of. The vinyl booths, the matching countertops – it’s a diner, all the lights inside aglow. If Liam can just make it inside. If he can just get his story out.

He has to move quickly. Sucking in a quick puff of cold air, Liam leans back and pushes off the ground, flinging himself to his feet. Almost before he’s all the way up, he’s throwing himself into his next step, staggering forward with all the grace and control of a drunken grizzly. Speed is his only chance, and also his greatest enemy. As Liam lunges forward, his body gives out under him. He stumbles, wailing in frustration, stretching his hand out for the door even as he goes down.

Before he can hit the pavement for the second time in ten minutes, the stranger catches Liam. It sounds like it takes a good amount of his strength, because the man grunts as Liam’s chest smacks his shoulder, but he stays where he is, all but holding Liam up.

Even though the guy seems to have decided to take Delilah’s side, gratitude leaves Liam breathless.

“Your brother is heavy,” the man complains, his gruff voice booming through the air right next to Liam’s ear.

“He was a football player,” Delilah explains, and surely anyone could hear that smug, faintly covetous tone in her voice? Surely, this man can see the way she squeezes his bicep as she runs her hand down his arm?

The man throws one of Liam’s arms over his shoulder and drags his unresisting body toward a parking lot. Stumbling along, Liam tries to stay on his feet, though now his hectic vision is starting to fade entirely. On his other side, Deliliah hovers along, her hand so light on his back that he should hardly be able to feel it. Somehow, though, while his entire body is distant, prickling, offline, that handprint burns in his awareness, heavy and hot and stinging like nettles. Liam whines under his breath, trying to make his thick tongue form words.

“Shh,” Delilah soothes, drawing so close he can feel her breath on his arm. “Shh, Philip, honey, it’s gonna be all right.”

Still whining like a kicked dog, Liam is dumped unceremoniously in a foreign backseat. Crawling up next to him, Delilah waits until the man is seated in front of them to perch herself basically in his lap. With greedy, grasping fingers, she tugs his leaden body over so Liam’s head is resting on her shoulder. At first, Liam fights it, but when the car starts up the winding mountain road, he subsides. The curving motion of the road sets his stomach roiling, so he’s too nauseous to do anything but let his head flop back as he tries to open his airway and breathe.

Cooing, Delilah cards her hot little hands through his hair. “Poor Philip,” she murmurs, voice sweet and conciliatory. “Poor honey. Didn’t I tell you no one would believe you?”

[collapse-and-comfort]

*Chopped chef’s voice* Today I’ve prepared for you: Caretaker rescuing their S/O Whumpee who has been tortured for information they didn’t have. Served with comfort. Thank you, as always, @lurkingwhump​ for the incredible request! Bon Appétit! 💕

(CW: Implied torture. Nothing graphic, though.) 

Whumpee’s pulse beat a blessedly steady tattoo against Caretaker’s fingertips.

“Help me get them down,” Caretaker told their teammate. Their words sounded so far away that they wondered if they’d even spoken them.  

When Teammate began taking a blade to the rope that held Whumpee’s arms above their head, Whumpee came to with a sharp intake of breath and started to writhe. Teammate ceased their efforts and Caretaker put one hand on Whumpee’s side and the other on their face, careful to avoid bruises and cuts.

“No more,” Whumpee rasped. Their eyes looked right through Caretaker as they tried to twist away. “Please, no more.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, Whumpee! Baby, it’s me! It’s me! Shshsh!”

Whumpee continued to squirm, but with their arms pinioned above their head, they became winded in seconds and they sagged in their binds.

“Look at me Whumpee,” Caretaker said. “Please, I’m right here. I’m here.”

Whumpee’s wide, mistrustful eyes settled on Caretaker. Caretaker was  unsure if Whumpee was going to lash out, or try to pull away again, but Whumpee stayed still, save for the rapid rise and fall of their chest.

“Caretaker?” Teammate asked.

“Go ahead,” Caretaker said without looking at Teammate. “We’re gonna get you down now, Whumpee. Okay? We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Uninterrupted, Teammate made quick work of the rope. Whumpee let out a yelp when their weight was no longer supported, but Caretaker was there to catch them.

“I’ve gotcha,” Caretaker said in a voice that was trying to convince themself as much as they were Whumpee. “I’ve gotcha.You’re safe.”  

“I don’t think they’re going to be able to stand,” Teammate said.

Caretaker knew they were right. They allowed Teammate to take hold of Whumpee and they reluctantly let go of them. Caretaker bolstered themself against the nearest wall and sank down as Whumpee weakly tried to wrest themself away from Teammate.

“I know, I know, Whumpee,” Teammate said. Whumpee was no match for Teammate in their current state, but Teammate looked equally as helpless as they held onto Whumpee and tried to comfort them. Inwardly, Caretaker applauded Teammate’s unerring gentleness. “We’re here, Whumpee. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not.”

“Alright,” Caretaker said as they motioned for Teammate to lower Whumpee down to them.

The process was graceless and fraught. Caretaker and Teammate hushed Whumpee all the while and when they were settled on the ground. Caretaker wrapped their arms, gentle and steely all at once, around Whumpee.

“Easy,” Caretaker encouraged as their fingers traced circles below Whumpee’s collarbone. “It’s just me, hon. It’s me.”

“Caretaker?” Whumpee asked as their eyes wandered over Caretaker’s face. Their movements slowly stilled as their body caught up with what a deeper part of them already knew. Caretaker had them. They were safe.

“Mmhmm,” Caretaker said as they swallowed down an upwelling of emotion. They used their thumb to brush the tears away from Whumpee’s face while ignoring the new dampness on their own. “I’m gonna take you home.”

Dazedness and disbelief clung to Whumpee’s features, but they nodded and leaned their head against Caretaker’s chest.

“You came,” Whumpee whispered, as though were afraid to shatter an illusion. Their fingers clutched at Caretaker’s shirt, anchoring themself, convincing themself. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” Caretaker said as they kissed the top of Whumpee’s head. Something boiled over in them as they wondered what Whumper had done to make Whumpee ever question that.  

Teammate gave a discreet clearing of their throat, but didn’t make a move toward Caretaker and Whumpee.

“Go call an ambulance and wait for it,” Caretaker said. Teammate turned on their heels and followed the order without hesitation. Caretaker suspected they were relieved to be away from the sight and sound of Whumpee. They couldn’t blame them. Not really.

“Gonna get you some help,” Caretaker told them. They repeated that along with sentimental nothings as they ran their fingers through Whumpee’s lank, greasy hair. Then they said what they never thought they’d have another chance to say: “I love you so much.”

Whumpee sobbed quietly and Caretaker soothed them. They took inventory of Whumpee’s wounds as best they could and Whumpee laid against them, warm and alive. Caretaker would have found Whumpee one way or the other, but during their search, in their heart, they’d expected to see Whumpee’s corpse each time they opened any door they might have been behind.

The echoes of approaching footsteps came from down the hall.

Whumpee lifted their head and made a small, questioning sound. When the paramedics entered the room, their body went taut and they let out a strangled, animal noise. Whumpee’s back pressed hard into Caretaker’s chest and their arms, weakened from having been bound, flailed.

“No! N-no no no! Please!” Whumpee cried. They sounded as though something was crushing the air from their lungs.

“Get back,” Caretaker grunted as they waved the newcomers away with two harsh swipes of their hand.

Whumpee bucked against Caretaker and kicked out blindly. The paramedics backed up, but Whumpee continued to struggle and beg.

“Whoa, Whoa, whoa! It’s okay, Whumpee!” Caretaker said as they pinned one of Whumpee’s arms along their side and wrapped their other arm around Whumpee’s chest. Caretaker reined in their nerves and their tone. “Sweetie, it’s okay. Shshsh.”

“I don’t know!” Whumpee choked out as they thrashed. “I don’t know I don’t know I dunnoooo…”

Senseless and uncontrolled, Whumpee struggled and wept. Caretaker moved one of their legs so it was settled over Whumpee’s and they readjusted their grip on their upper body, pulling them closer as tenderly as they dared. They sat their chin on Whumpee’s shoulder. Whatever pain Whumpee’s injuries caused them was overshadowed by their panic.

“I’ve got you, Whumpee,” Caretaker told them. “They’re just here to help. I promise, honey. Ssssshhhh. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Whumpee shook their head, but their energy began to flag and once they stopped thrashing, Caretaker could feel the way they were trembling. Whumpee’s body had never felt wrong against theirs, but it did now. It was too lean, too wired, as though the only thing animating it was terror.

“I don’t know,” Whumpee said. Each word was interrupted by a desperate gasp, but they continued chanting those three wretched words.

“It’s okay, Whumpee. You don’t have to know. You don’t have to say. Just breathe for me.”

Whumpee pulled in a breath that went on and on as though their lungs would never fill. Caretaker was certain Whumpee was going going to pass out. But then the air stuttered back out of them and they collapsed against Caretaker with a broken little sound.

“Okay, that’s it. Okay. Just like this,” Caretaker said as they put a hand over Whumpee’s chest and took an exaggerated breath in. “Just do what I’m doing.”

Caretaker slowly and deliberately exhaled and patted Whumpee’s chest. By the third time they did that, Whumpee was following along stiltedly. Caretaker praised them as they let go of Whumpee’s arm and brushed their hair back. They remembered the last time - and so many of the times before that - they'd run their hands through Whumpee’s hair. Now Whumpee’s hair was matted and dirty. It wasn’t a priority, not in the least, but Caretaker needed Whumpee to be clean and comfortable. And safe.

They’re safe now, Caretaker thought as they pressed a kiss to Whumpee’s jawline. Whumpee’s breathing hitched, but it was less frantic.

“Good, Whumpee,” Caretaker said as they moved their leg from over Whumpee’s and rested it alongside them. “You're doing so good.”

Whumpee slouched and began to reposition themself.

“Hey,” Caretaker gently said they loosened their hold on Whumpee. They were surprised and relieved when they felt Whumpee’s weight curl into them again, asking for comfort. Caretaker didn’t notice when tears began to soak into their shirt, and Whumpee’s quiet sobs were the only thing they heard. “I’m here, honey. Just let it out.”  

They did.

Caretaker wrapped an arm around Whumpee and with their other hand, they stroked their back and leaned their head down to meet Whumpee’s. They cradled them like that and Whumpee brought a hand up and grasped Caretaker’s forearm. The touch was familiar and so, so welcome.

Caretaker caught movement on the other side of the door. Whumpee’s hand tightened on them and Caretaker met the gaze of one of the paramedics, whose presence they’d all but forgotten. Caretaker held up a discrete finger.

Just a minute, they pleaded in silence.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker asked once the paramedic gave them a nod of understanding. “You with me?”

Whumpee searched Caretaker’s face. Caretaker had to keep themself from dropping their gaze to avoid all the hurt and uncertainty in Whumpee’s glassy, bloodshot eyes; they couldn’t let Whumpee down like that. Not after everything they’d already endured.

Whumpee licked their chapped lips. Their gaze skirted downward, but they nodded and pressed themself closer into Caretaker.

“Good,” Caretaker said. “That’s good. I’m going to take you out of this place, but can you...I need you to let the paramedics help, okay? They just want to make sure you’re alright. They’re not going to hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”  

Caretaker held their breath as they waited for a response.

“‘kay,” Whumpee mumbled into their shirt.

Caretaker lifted their chin, giving the paramedics permission to approach.

“Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to,” Caretaker said.

The paramedics’ words and gestures were efficient and gentle, but there was caution there too. Rightfully so, Caretaker knew. Caretaker talked and Whumpee listened. They held them through every flinch, and every groan. Caretaker kept Whumpee’s focus on them with kisses and reminders to look at them. All Whumpee needed to do was let them help.

Whumpee’s eyes grew heavier each time Caretaker’s fingers traced over their forehead.