#lindsay00000008

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

Part 1 (Next)

CW: panty-thief, suggestive fluff

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley who just loves handling the frustrating, mundane, mildly-anxiety-inducing issues in JustAFriend!Reader’s life.

For a man who’s been through… everything, nothing phases him. Not the phone call to pressure your old landlord into giving you back your deposit, not the broken dryer and the giant pile of wet laundry that needs to be hung in increasingly ridiculous locations, not the stray cat birthing a mewling litter on your doorstep in the middle of winter, or the neighborhood’s package thief stealing your delivery of what may be something electric and flower-shaped.

If you didn’t know any better (you don’t), you’d say he gets a kick out of it, how easily he handled these things compared to you. His take-no-bullshit demeanor, coupled with the respect afforded to those who earn it, smooths things over fairly quickly with difficult people.

He’s handy and likes taking things apart — he’s sure you won’t miss the dusty lace panties he finds slipped under the dryer’s barrel when he bullies the metal frame open (they were your favorite, where on earth did they go??)

When the kittens are a few weeks old and Simon comes to visit with more supplies, they snuggle up under his chin as he slumps on the rug, the furious blush from your earlier teasing (“Daddy’s home!”) warming him from his cheeks to his toes and making him the most cozy spot in the room. He waves off the offer of a hot drink and tells you to “Open a window or sumin’, the lil’ bastards are smotherin’ me”.

When he catches the package thief red-handed on his way up to your door — a fourty-something woman who talks at him louder and meaner than anyone has in a long while — he gives his best impression of a bull at the edge of an unmarked field, making his territory known with a wild look rather than words. When he sets the package down on the kitchen counter, along with the ingredients for tonight’s Thursday Dinner Experiment, he prompts you to open it. “Wanna see what my hard work has earned ya.”

You slice the tape and pop open the cardboard before you remember — and slam the flaps back down. That has his attention. “Whatcha got there, lovie?” He crowds in behind you, looking over your shoulder and grinning, lopsided so you can only see the smirk on the left of his mouth when you turn your head to stammer, “uhh n-nothing, just this stupid book someone recommended me. Can’t let the gang know I fuck with hockey romance, haha.”

“Hockey, huh?” He huffs and leans his elbow on the counter, half of his body still behind you somehow. You pull the box close to your chest, hands shifting to best keep it closed.

“Lemme just take this to my room and we can start making-“

“You’d deprive a man of valuable literary experience?”

“No, nuh-uh,” you dance away as he grabs for it teasingly, fast enough to make you panic but not too fast you can’t get away. A play fight. Your pulse thrums fast in your chest, like it always does when he gets that calculating glint in his eye. It’s thrilling, the way his shoulders shift and settle low, and his touch comes gentle and fast, his face a terrifying mask with that piercing glint of playfulness just barely hidden. You usually love this game. But he cannot see this.

His hand rushes towards you as you skirt backwards into the living room, his fingers tangling in the tape hanging from the box. It tears away and you shriek a laugh at his efforts, leaving him with nothing but another opening as you twist to run to your room. But you don’t count on another opponent entering the ring: the rug — trundled up the stairs by the man himself, the previous one sacrificed to the God of Foster Cats — still new and curling at the edge.

He must not expect it either. Before you’ve fully turned you’re falling into the couch, catching his arm in a bid to save yourself. He goes down too, landing atop you. Your “Oomph”s mingle together in the suddenly still air. His big body makes it impossible to breathe until he lifts up on his arms and takes stock of the situation. He eyes snag on the box where it’s fallen, the shiny inner box and red packing grass spilled out on the rug. You attempt to wriggle out before he sees. Your legs are firmly pinned between his own. You wait for him to laugh.

“Well that,” he breathes, not a giggle in sight. He settles his eyes on you with a look of hot reproach. “That is not a book.”

He hopes it’s broken. That’s a problem of yours he’d love to have a hand in solving.

(Next)

[augusnippets]

👋🏻😛

Some hurtspo:

Jewellery used for humiliation, ownership, or bondage

Whumpee getting injured while protecting someone else

Whump with undue intimacy, like a caress before a syringe goes in

Whumpee covered in blood and freaking out about it

Whumpee forced to eat or drink from whumper’s hands

Piercing, branding, tattoo!!

Parading or displaying whumpee

Carespo: (I’m not great at the care part haha)

Caretaker finding Whumpee passed out and rushing to help them

Caretaker saying a phrase often used by Whumper and having to deal with the effects of it on Whumpee (conditioning, panic, shutting down)

Whumpee has a fake persona they’ve carved into themselves, used for Whumper’s pleasure, and Caretaker doesn’t know how to deal with it

thank you!

[lindsay00000008]

More of Whumper forcing Whumpee to disobey

[CW: general torture, general whump]

Using a substance to influence inhuman Whumpee’s claws, fangs, wings to appear, or to shift forms, then punishing them when they lose control [“You dare bare your teeth at me? You are nothing but a worm beneath my heel. I’ll show you what happens to those who disrespect me.”]

Spelling Whumpee to only speak the truth, then punishing them for their beliefs and opinions [“What do you think of me?” “I thin-“ Whumpee grits their teeth- “think you’re the most vile waste of air the gods have ever created” “Well. That’s no way to speak to me, now is it?”]

Putting someone else in Whumpee’s cage, then igniting them with feral bloodlust [“Look what you’ve done to your new friend. I worked so hard to bring someone for you to play with, but it seems you’d rather be alone. So be it.” Meanwhile, Whumpee is coming back to themselves and sobbing over the mess they’ve made, having ruined their one chance at connection]

Whumper provides food, water, and small comforts, but Whumpee is punished for accepting them [“Shhh, darling you took the bread yesterday, and the tunic the day before. Just a few more bruises and I’ll consider your debt paid. Don’t whine about it now. You can afford it after all, can’t you?”]

Whumpee is not allowed to speak. But when something comes to light about their past and Whumper needs information from them, they find it’s impossible to get [“I command you to speak! You have a voice — you still are able to scream and yet you do not answer me. The pain will be over if you give me what I desire!” Whumpee just shakes their head, forcing down pained whines. They’re in a state of unending panic — after years being tortured for even the slightest vocalization, any decision they make will surely end in misery. So they keep their mouth shut, and it only prompts Whumper to retaliate harder.]

whumper pushing whumpee to the ground, ordering them to get back up, and kicking them back down each time they try. repeat as many times as you like. especially w whumper getting more snippy each time.

“i said get up” while they’re making it physically impossible

physically and mentally exhausting them in addition to hurting them. forcing whumpee to participate in their own abuse.

[kabie-whump]

new ventis art cause his OC intro portrait didn't have horns <3

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-whumpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet

@sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck @wounds-seen-and-unseen @3-2-whump

@looptheloup @lindsay00000008 @rainydaywhump @scoundrelwithboba @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[lindsay00000008]

Whumpee who seems to be getting less attention from Whumper-

-and that terrifies them. They don't want Whumper's attention. It only brings pain, humiliation, discomfort. But Whumpee has seen what happens when Whumper loses interest. It's the reason they're there.

They don’t know if Whumper will like it better if they break or stay disobedient, so they shift wildly back and forth. They need to be interesting to stay alive. Their fear, which once kept them defensive, now makes them shout at Whumper, looking for ways to get under their skin (though they doubt it's even possible). When tortured now Whumpee may laugh, beg, or stay silent according no discernible pattern. Sometimes they roll their eyes at Whumper brandishing their weapon of choice, other times they cry and drool and babble nonsense.

It's incredibly convincing. At first, Whumper suspects Whumpee has gone mad. It would make sense, after all they've gone through. But this Whumpee was chosen - curated - for their mental durability. They thought for sure Whumpee's body would go before their brain. Any other way was wasteful. Distasteful to Whumper, for the way it would take the witness from behind Whumpee's eyes.

Upon closer investigation, Whumper realizes Whumpee's game. It pleases Whumper that Whumpee wants so desperately to be a good toy. They wonder at the challenge of getting this new personality to break - removing the mask, cracking into the bedrock. How might it be to truly break the mind before the body?

So they give Whumpee all sorts of new rules, just to see how far it’ll go. New confusions, new substances, new comforts and environments. New ways to fail, new punishments and rewards. Whumper should thank Whumpee, for expanding their world. Maybe it was their fault all along that their Whumpees eventually turned dull.

Now Whumpee curses themselves. They'd tried to make their imprisonment more interesting to Whumper. But it looks like Whumper has just taken them up on the challenge.

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

Part 2 (Prev)

CW: suggestive fluff, bad jokes, boners, reader is willfully dumb, author doesn’t know where this story is going but wants to write more parts anyway, first cod fic actually send help, is he smiling too much? Idk, happy ghost I guess

“Well that… that is not a book.”

Ghost’s eyes lock onto yours, too close for comfort. Your whole body flushes, and your stomach dips. This situation is way out of hand. His breath huffs and his body tenses, and your skin tingles with the charge in the air — the playfight isn’t over.

You do the only thing you can think of. You wriggle your arm between the two of you and cover his mouth with your palm, using his surprise to smoosh his face away from yours and twisting your body to the side. Both of you roll off the couch and onto the floor. You’re on top, and ready to break away, to end the fight with a handshake and burning cheeks.

But you gasp as his legs come up and around your hips, and his arms catch your torso and head, bringing you into his hips like a tree to a bear.

“Simon!” you yelp, though it sounds more like Fimom, the word getting lost in his meaty shoulder. His hold is gentle but stiff, and it’s impossible to go anywhere. You shift your body, feeling like you’ve been gift-wrapped by a professional knot-maker. “Mmph…” you give up and let your body relax on top of his.

After a few moments of heavy silence he sighs and relaxes his grip.

“Mmm,” he purrs. “This is nice…”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up as he finally allows you to move.

“If you wanted a cuddle you could’ve just asked,” you tell him, rolling off him to land on your back.

“I meant the roughhousing,” he deadpans, turning his head to watch you.

“Oh, of course. My mistake,” you quip back. Then you remember the box on the floor and jolt upright, stuffing the contents back in before stumbling to your feet and heading to your room, your shoulder tensed for a possible pounce. But it seems playtime is over, and you make it to your room without a fuss. You toss the small box on your bed, then change your mind and put it in a drawer instead.

When you return, Simon is in the kitchen, peeling the dry outer layers away from an onion.

“You can just cut it in half and it’d be easier to get those bits off,” you tell him.

“It’s not clean,” he retorts.

“You’re worried about a little dirt?”

“No,” he doesn’t elaborate, but keeps peeling it anyway. You settle into his side and smile, taking the skin off a second onion. How silly, that this man cares so much for grocery store germs, when he probably had days at a time in the field where he couldn’t even wash his hands?

When he finishes peeling his onion, he washes his hands again, and even rinses the onion, before grabbing the knife. You follow the routine, not wanting to gross him out or overstep. You guess it may be an overcorrection, him trying to be as clean as possible when he can. You just don’t remember seeing these tendencies when he’s made food for himself, those times you came over after your own early dinner. In fact, this may be the first time he’s cooked for you.

“You want to become God, then?” You joke, feeling a bit lame.

“What?”

“Cleanliness. Close to godliness.”

He shrugs. “You deserve a clean onion.”

That’s makes you snicker. “You must think so highly of me. Odd, considering you’ve seen the kind of messes I make when I cook for you.”

He smiles at that. You’re thinking of the time you accidentally heated up soup in a soapy pot. Simon had half of his bowl before you took a bite, only commenting that he must have that rogue cilantro gene. But he could be thinking of one of the many other food mishaps that occurred under your hospitality.

As he chops, you bend down and pat his leg to scooch, so you can access the cabinets beneath him. He tilts his hips and steps away — but not before you notice the bulge tightly packed behind his zipper. As you nonchalantly grab the glass bowl and pan you need, your head spins. Is this some odd side effect of cutting onions? Your eyes sting, you cry, you pop a boner…

Or was it because he just had your body under him, atop him, picturing you using your recent delivery…?

No. It’s not you he’s reacting to, he’s just a guy. He just got a little excited, got his blood pumping for a play fight with his bestie. That’s normal. But you can’t help thinking how you have this giant, manly — sexual man in your kitchen. How you ever managed to disregard that fact in the first place.

You’ve stalled after placing the pan on the stove, and you don’t realize until a handful of minced onion hits the pan in front of you.

“Oh wait, the oil,” you tell him, looking up at his face. He looks concerned for you, and maybe a little warm himself, a pink flush on his cheeks.

“Just poured some. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah… Water?”

He grunts his confirmation. You open the fridge to find the filter empty. You sigh.

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

(Next)

[lindsay00000008]

More quiet whump :)

Inspired by this post by @defire

[CW: general abuse, whump in public, hiding abuse and injuries]

Keeping Whumpee in line.

Whumper doesn’t need to deal threats when they can simply deal consequences.

Shock collars are far too gaudy for a night out, not to mention conspicuous. Whumpee wears thick bands around their wrists instead, hidden beneath their sleeves, making their hands clench and shake whenever they’re activated.

The sharp pinch of a guiding hand on the sensitive skin of Whumpee’s ribs. A “friendly” hand on Whumpee’s shoulder, grinding collar bones and fraying nerves. The quick step of a heavy boot on the toe of a cloth shoe. Whumper leaves bruises where no one else will see.

Whumper with a painful magic touch. What looks like a gentle caress can come with the bite of thorns. It’s starting to hurt whether or not the magic is used. God forbid Whumpee flinches in front of Whumper’s friends, or their enemies…

A more severe punishment is sometimes required. But no need to be dramatic or cause a scene, just find a quiet place to get Whumpee back on track…

Whumpee is backhanded, the blow startling them to fall to their knees. Whumper’s expression never even changes. They just continue walking, expecting - demanding - Whumpee to keep up.

Whumpee has their knee kicked out from behind, making them drop, and their hair is gathered and pulled in an unrelenting grip. They gasp as their head is pulled back, their airways straining. Then, as quickly as it started, they’re released with a shove.

Whumper pulls Whumpee into a dark corner and wraps their hand around Whumpee’s throat. It’s jarring, yet the action itself is slow, tempered; every twitch of muscle fiber spelling out Whumper’s intention. Whumpee tries to apologize, but their breath emerges limp from the crushed airway. Just when their eyes burn and flash with dots and darkness - like a thousand cigarette stubbings - Whumper let’s go. They stare at Whumpee then, watching the heaving lungs and the shuffling, unsteady feet. Then - maybe the flash of a pleased smirk, too quick to tell - they turn away.

Actions speak louder than words, even in Whumper’s personal domain.

When Whumpee says anything other than what Whumper wants to hear, their head is forced under cold water. They’re sputtering and gasping for breath before the next shove, and Whumper gives them no hints as to how to end the torture. They can only guess wrong, and drown again.

Whumper likes the way their whumpee responds to the snap of their fingers. The sound, after alerting Whumpee to a mistake, used to be immediately followed by pain. A fist to the side of the head, a dose of magic poisoning the blood, an ear-splitting scream transposed into their thoughts. Now it’s followed by silence. Of course Whumpee still flinches, still cowers, still tries to right the wrongs. They know about the mental tally Whumper keeps. How Whumper likes the efficiency of this new tactic — how Whumper also likes that if they hold off on the impulse to punish Whumpee in the moment, they’ll have plenty of time to think of something better. Something a lot more fun.

Was gonna make this an even three but I’m tired lmao

Bonus

Whumpee is restrained and muzzled. They’re being spoken about, but not to, and they feel like an observer in their own torment. Are they being sold? Examined? Evaluated? Mocked? Even cooed or awed over, they’ll feel the shame of their silence and inability to participate. They can only glare… that is, if they can get away with it.

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

A little worldbuilding for ya. Enjoy! Maybe next will be a how-they-met drabble.

Part 3 (Prev)

CW: cursing, reference to solo hanky panky

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

So it turns out a honey glaze can catch fire in the air fryer. Who knew?

The Thursday Dinner Experiment dissolves into a slapdash affair of side veggies (sautéed onions, broccoli and peppers) with frozen beef and bean burritos as the main course. You and Simon settle on a movie to offset the stress of dousing the flames, have a couple more beers on the couch, and talk about the project Simon wants to complete before his next gig.

“Built-ins.”

“Incredible. Love a good built-in.”

His fixer-upper has been the highlight of his time off, it seems. Not a distraction, per se. You get the feeling he likes the act of creation, healing the house and seeing the effect of his work in measurable ways. He says he intends to sell it for profit, but those times you see him at work it’s a bit hard to believe.

“The roof is all fixed then?”

“Mm,” he gives a more-or-less wave of his hand, and you snicker.

“Remind me not to sleep over. Or would you hold an umbrella for me?”

He huffs and takes a swig of his drink.

“Oh, hey have you heard from Johnny lately?”

He gives you a look that seems to say o‘course I have, and you continue.

“Ok yeah, I just meant I haven’t been able to get ahold of him in a bit.”

“Some’n you need?”

“Um, it’s more like I owe him,” you chuckle. “He told me I could buy him dinner but he’s been slippery.”

Simon snorts, covering his mouth and nose before beer can spout forth.

“What?” You smile, bewildered at his sudden humor.

“Hmm. Johnny... yeah, you could say he’s slippery.”

“Is this a sex thing? Cause I remember that story Johnny told at the bar and it really-“

“Nah,” Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, “Nah it’s not a sex thing. It's a... work thing. Inside joke.”

"Oh, haha..." You laugh faintly, that familiar, outside-looking-in feeling creeping up. You're not exactly sure what Simon does for work. You've been friends for two years now, and see him constantly for those periods of time when he's home, but there's still so much you're in the dark about. You don't need to know these things to enjoy your time together. And Simon seems comfortable separating his work from his daily life. Besides his attachment to his coworker Johnny, of course, the two closer than brothers.

Sometime you think they're in some kind of international mafia. Simon shows up after a month away looking like he's been steamrolled and blown up, with trinkets and treats from places far away. Specialty coffee, a tiny stained glass lamp, an ocarina engraved with a lily. The military maybe - but you've had friends in the military, a cousin who joined the marines even, and this feels very different.

Simon rubs his mouth, slotting the bridge between his thumb and forefinger beneath his nose, an action you've noticed seems to sooth him. Perhaps he's thinking the same things, feeling the secrets between you. You want to pull him away from the thought, show him you're fine with however much he can give you. Your friendship is all that matters.

"So he's good yeah? Just busy, then?"

"Hm. Bloke's fine, probably just joined a knittin' club or sum'in. I'll ask 'im."

"Hah. Well like I said, it's repayment, for that time he spotted me at Hooligan's. Don't want to be a bother."

Simon levels you with a serious look.

"He'd be a big idiot to turn down your offer."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Why are you avoiding her, ya big idiot?" Simon accuses Johnny when he phones him later that night.

"Oh 'am the idiot? Yer the one who can't see 'am tryin' to give ye room to make a move on the lass."

"Fuck righ' off Soap, we're just friends. Thought the two o' you were friends too, but you're making her wonder."

"She'll ge' over it. But you won't ge' over it if she goes out with me and falls for my charms, no' will ya?"

"Gimme a break."

"Look. I like her. Which is why I'm backin' off. It's no' so rare for me to have a wee crush. But the second I saw you makin' goo-goo eyes-"

"I do not make-"

"Hush it, LT. 'Am just tryin'a give ye yer best shot. She's the first thing ye think of when comin' off deployment, yeah? 'Ah know, I see it in ye every time. One day you'll thank me."

"Look, just..." Simon speaks through a raging blush, his voice a grumble that sounds grumpier than he really feels, "call her back, would ya? Go grab a coffee or something. I'm not pressed. If she likes you... I'll deal. Don't count on it though. She's too smart for you."

"Sure LT. I'll do it for you, alright? Kisses,"

"Soap..."

"Yeah, LT?"

"Fuck off."

"'Night, LT."

"G'night."

Simon tosses the phone to the floor beside the bed and curses up at the ceiling, rubbing his hot face. His mind turns back to the wrestling that afternoon. The way he "accidentally" fell atop you when you tripped, how you were enveloped perfectly beneath his body, the way your eyes widened and cheeks flushed when you both looked at the salacious packaging spilling out of the nondescript cardboard box. Oh, how he wanted to tease you relentlessly. Give in to the desire to drag your pure, ladylike demeanor through the mud and then lick it all off. If he said the things he was itching to say, would you cover your ears, or laugh? Would you bite back? What would happen then, on that couch, if you hadn't scurried away when you did? The images take him away.

It's a long time before he finds sleep, his hands too rough and knowledgable to truly satisfy.

He can't go on like this. Not forever. But what else can he do?

Taglist:

If you've given me love in the comments or reblogs I've added you too! Thanks for the support! Lmk to add/remove.

@littleghostbride, @cmbghost, @anotherrickinthewall, @etherealinthewoods

P.S. About Simon's mask

My sister told me she was confused as to why Simon doesn't have a mask in these drabbles. I have the idea that he keeps his civilian life so entirely separate from work that he can't wear a mask all the time for fear people might make that connection. People know him in the field as the guy who always wears the mask, right? He has two identities. With the mask, and without. Ghost, and Simon. He does still wear a plain black KN95 on errands, citing health awareness (it's really his anxiety). But when he's comfortable at home or with friends (even at his favorite bar, sometimes), he takes it off. That's my headcannon, anyway.

[lindsay00000008]

Whumper’s bad habits

CW: kidnapping, drugged, captive whumpee, cigarettes, second hand smoke, choking

Whumper takes a drag of their cigarette, idling in a parking lot near a vacant grocery store. They always need a smoke during a gig. Keeps them calm, keeps the adrenaline from gnawing at them. They’ll start up the car in a few minutes. For now, they tilt down the rear-view mirror. Whumpee has exhausted themselves, tied hand and foot and ratcheted to the back seat like a piece of furniture. The chloroform wore off an hour ago. Then the streetlights passing with muffled, weary screams until Whumpee’s voice gave out. Now, Whumper fills the car with smoke. The haze stinging their eyes is familiar, welcome. For Whumpee, dehydrated and bruised, gagged and hoarse and coughing through their nose in the back, it’s the start of a new nightmare. A new association, the memory of this night burned into their nostrils. They can’t get enough air. Their mouth fills with saliva, they choke on the fabric stuffed between their teeth. They turn their nose into the seat cushion, but the smell is there too.

Whumper leans around the driver’s seat and blows their last huff directly at Whumpee’s face. Whumpee makes a sharp stuttering, hacking sound — gasps in a smoke-filled breath. Whumper laughs.

“Bless you.”

Whumper starts the car, blasting the AC against the summer night’s heat, just as Whumpee’s eyes roll back. They’re blissfully quiet for the next two hours.

[lindsay00000008]

YES AND (OR),

What if caretaker battles against the odds and triumphs against Whumper — they’re bruised and beaten, but grinning wildly, ear to ear, thinking they’ve just saved Whumpee. They claim their prize, the keys from Whumper’s pockets, and enter the deepest part of the lair, barely looking at the last few henchman they finish off. They find the cell. They open it. And it’s just Whumpee 2.

They look around in a panic, but it’s the only cell. Whumpee 2 has long since stopped pleading for better things, long since stopped pulling at the chains, so they just watch Caretaker as they move in and out of the space in a daze, hearing their steps go and return. Only a faint spark of hope lights in their chest. But they saw how henchman was so easily disposed of. They wonder what would happen to them if they told Caretaker the one they were looking for was dead. If they would last the time it took so finish the sentence, or if Caretaker would break and end Whumpee’s suffering. Or maybe they would help Whumpee. But would they really, if all they had been fighting for had already been lost? Whumpee sees it now, the way Whumpee 1 spoke of a tall, menacing beast of a Caretaker, but with a heart of gold inside — a heart hidden from Whumpee when quiet, cold eyes finally stop their frantic searching and find their own.

“Where are they?”

Whumpee swallows. Shakes their head. “Gone.”

“Gone?” Caretaker’s voice is flat.

“They’re… they’re dead.”

Everything is still. Silent.

“When?”

The word breaks the air. It scorches Caretaker’s tongue, abraids Whumpee’s ear.

“I dont know, it’s- it’s hard to tell how-“

“When?” Caretaker’s voice shakes. “Please.”

“Weeks ago,” Whumpee whispers.

“H-… How?”

Whumpee shakes their head again.

“It wasn’t- I don’t think you-“ Whumpee can’t tell them. Can’t relive what had almost been their fate. It makes their empty stomach churn. Their eyes burn, too dry for tears. They feel a mass of guilt and sick relief when Caretaker looks away, putting the question aside.

“And then?”

“And then…? O-oh.” And then. “I buried them. Whumper wasn’t there, they made me dig- I-I said a prayer, I wanted to do it right, but it- but it was just me. I can show you if…”

The words almost make Whumpee gag. Here they are, delivering the news to Caretaker, whose loved one died in their stead, and they have the gall to ask for their own freedom?

Caretaker nods, though they look so far away Whumpee isn’t sure they’ve heard. Whumpee’s shoulders twinge from their position, and they wince when their chains clink. Caretaker looks at them them, takes a step towards them— Whumpee flinches away.

“I wouldn’t leave you here,” Caretaker says. Their voice is flat again. Strained against their teeth. It sounds like a lie, even to Caretaker. But they move slowly around Whumpee and take the manacles in hand. Whumpee’s skin is mangled by the rough metal edges. But they hold their breath as Caretaker tries several keys. When the manacles come off, they pull at Whumpee’s skin, sticky with old blood.

“Was Whumpee…” was Whumpee 1 like that too?

Whumpee 2 doesn’t answer. They aren’t sure what they should do. They don’t think Whumpee 1 would have wanted Caretaker to know everything. And Whumpee 2 has reasons for keeping things to themselves. But they can say this much.

“Thank you.”

They meet eyes for a long moment as Whumpee rises. Then, not wanting to push their luck, Whumpee 2 nods jerkily in what they hope comes off as a respectful goodbye. But before they take two steps Caretaker steps in their way.

“Wait, don’t — come with me.”

Whumpee looks at them, certain Caretaker couldn’t want Whumpee to burden them any longer.

“I mean,” Caretaker says, “it just feels… wrong. Like, I’m going to walk away from here and it will be like, like I’m still looking. If you came with me, I could…”

“I don’t want to… be that reminder for you.”

“Please, not like that, just… just let me help you. Just for a while. And it’ll be…” Caretaker’s eyes are clear, but they blink hard. “All this, it’ll be worth something.”

Something passes between the two.

Whumpee nods.

“Ok. Good. Ok.” Caretaker repeats, like they’re trying to keep themselves awake. “Let’s go.”

Caretaker walks steady and slow, but doesn’t touch Whumpee as they leave, even when Whumpee stumbles on the crumbling stone, avoiding the lifeless bodies littered about the place. When they feel the sunlight on their face, it’s surreal. Whumpee 2 had buried Whumpee 1 in the dead of night, with only cold wind and a sliver of moon for company. Whumpee 2 was so sure it would happen that way for them too, that the sun would never again warm even their bones.

They can’t help but wonder, when Caretaker finds out the truth, will they be made to dig that grave, too? What time would they be laid to rest?

If Caretaker bothered to say a prayer, would Whumpee deserve it?

caretaker breaking into whumper's trying to save whumpee, but they find whumpee's corpse and a new whumpee tied up next to it

[lindsay00000008]

[CW: Dehumanization, self-conditioning]

Last sentence edited because it was too cringe and I like this better

“You- you can’t do that to me, I-”

“Do what? Offer you food? Ask if you’re tired?”

“All of it! It’s, you’re not—”

“Please, please don’t cry, I don’t know how I’ve upset you. Tell me what you need, I don’t know—”

“I-You can’t do it! You can’t pretend like I’m the same as you, like I deserve—”

“You deserve much more than this!”

“You’re not listening to me! I need you to listen—”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“I need— I need to go back.”

“…What?”

“I want— I understand, understood, that place— who I… what I—”

“You are not what they told you you are.”

“But I don’t know how to be anything different! I don’t know how— how to be what you want! And it hurts me, not being able to… to be yours.”

“To be mine? You don’t have to—”

“I do. I need it. To be something, for you. Of you. To know... And… I can’t be the way that you want me to be. Even just… just speaking to you like, like I’m… it…”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m like you. It hurts. Sometimes more than what they did to me.”

[lindsay00000008]

The angst of a time difference…

Whumpee is captured or lost, in some magical trap or strange dream. Perhaps they’re in another realm, slave to whatever beasts inhabit it. Perhaps they’re in the clutches of a powerful enemy, who has ensured each second is filled with torture or uncertainty. Days turn to weeks, to months, to however long. They once believed Caretaker would find them, rescue them, bring them home. Eventually, they gave up hope.

So how does Whumpee feel when they return home through their own strength - to find that it’s only been a few days since they were last seen?

Do they have any right to feel betrayed? Did Caretaker even know they were gone? They feel so far apart now — how can they ever be the same?

Who does Whumpee turn to now, when they can’t look Caretaker in the eye? And is Caretaker willing to let Whumpee go, or would that be the real betrayal?

[lindsay00000008]

Do and Die

CW: Brainwashing

Manipulating Whumpee into thinking that if they do something (take off their collar, speak louder than a hoarse whisper, look Whumper in the eyes, steal food or water, touch another person, disobey Whumper’s direct command, hurt Whumper or anyone under Whumper’s employ, lie to Whumper, etc etc) that they will instantly be killed, be it by Whumper’s hand, or some magic curse, or technology.

How does Whumper get Whumpee to believe they have such power? What happens when Whumpee is so tired of living in Whumper’s world that they do it anyway?

[lindsay00000008]

CW: Fem!whumpee, Male!Whumpers, burning at the stake, religious insults, mentions of noncon/breeding & body horror, malnourishment & passing out

The man speaks as he piles wood around the pyre.

“The beasts would keep you caged, like a prized cow for milking. Your wicked blood must not fall into their hands.”

The ropes tying Whumpee to the sturdy wood make her ache. Her throat, her arms, her waist and ankles. Her skin crawls with the sensation of grime and rough fabric, with the useless urge to flee. She’s long since stopped speaking, stopped pulling at the restraints. She’s burning already.

Another man comes to douse the wood with oil and old wine. The stench makes Whumpee’s head jerk as she tries not to gag, her stomach empty enough as it is. But what does that matter, if the only way she’s to leave this pyre is in black flakes, carried by the wind?

Whumpee doesn’t even get a moment of silence to contemplate this as the second man speaks. “They’d drain you every night, leaving just enough to keep you alive, and they’d breed you in the hopes you’ll make a child with god-forsaken blood. And as soon as it’s ripped from your womb, they’ll feed on ‘im too.”

“It’d not be a child what comes from the mixing of a devil and a witch. A thing like that’d tear itself out the womb,” the first replies, shuddering even as he cracks a long stick over his knee and tosses the pieces on.

“This is a mercy,” he repeats.

The two circle her, cracking sticks and tossing hay and volatile liquids, and soon she doesn’t feel the sting on her aching feet. They’ve stopped talking now, thankfully. Their quiet rhythm is hypnotizing.

Whumpee almost weeps when she feels her mind go numb, weakened by lack of food and water, by spending so much time on a cold stone floor. She doesn’t need to be here for this. It will happen and that will be it. Hopefully she won’t wake up again.

And so she isn’t aware that the torch never lights the stack. She doesn’t hear the way the men fall to the ground with two thuds in quick succession, or the way her body slumps into cool, strong arms when the ropes are cut in one long swipe.

All she knows, all she feels in the darkness of her mind, is that perhaps they were right. Perhaps this really is a mercy.

Whump prompt:

"This is a mercy compared to what they would do to you."

[lindsay00000008]

Whumpees in traps

1. A hole in the ground

CW: gunshot wound, tranquillizing/needles, slightly intimate whumper

Whumpee stumbles through the underbrush, away from the shouting men and barking dogs. One arm, bloody with a fresh wound, is cradled to their chest by the other, making their escape a hip-swaying, unsteady affair. They can barely see in the cool blue light of dusk. The trees both aid their cover and disrupt their path. And then, the whole forest shifts up and away, and darkness surrounds whumpee before they feel the hard earth come up to meet them.

Dazed, they attempt to roll onto their back, but they only get so far before a wall stops them. Their legs try to kick out and earth crumbles there too, but doesn’t give — unlike their ankle, which feels tender and brittle. A halo of light shines above, not very far — but when whumpee gets to their feet, leaning on the sides of the hole for support, they find it’s too far for their current state. An arm’s usefulness lost to a captor’s gun, a body weakened by stress and captivity, an ankle sprained in the fall. The trap is a crude, unsophisticated thing, but obviously man-made. For wolves, or snakes, or maybe hobs. Not made for a whumpee, though now it may as well have been.

The barking starts up once more, close by. The shouts then, and bits of dirt rain down as a nose snuffles at the edge of the hole, encroaching on Whumpee’s fading light. The dog marks it’s prey with more barks. Whumpee cowers below, turning into the shadows and trying to make themselves invisible. Hopefully a whumper will fall in, and somehow become incapacitated, and whumpee can climb atop them to get out… but no. The whumpers see the trap.

“They’re here! Get a rope!” one shouts. “There’s no escape, whumpee. You come with us or you die down there.”

But when the rope is thrown in, whumpee refuses to cooperate.

“Take the damn rope, Whumpee.”

But Whumpee is frozen.

“Whumpers, hold the line. I’ll bring them up.”

The whumper scales the drop, wary of Whumpee’s attack when their back is turned. There’s barely enough room for both of them. Whumpee can only curl themselves away, as if they might melt into the dirt or sink beneath it. Whumper grabs the back of Whumpee’s neck, then their arm — the one with the bullet. Whumpee screams. Whumper lets go of their arm with a curse.

“They’re injured! Get me something to calm them,” Whumper calls to the others. “You’re a lotta trouble, you know that? They shouldn’t have used a gun on you though. Dammit…”

Whumpee is almost pressed against Whumper’s legs by the proximity in the small space. Whumper pulls Whumpee out of their huddled crouch, a little more gently than before. They fend off Whumpee’s hand as they make feeble, fumbling attempts to push them away. Then Whumpee is only sagging against the wall before Whumper, too tired to fight. Whumper puts an arm around their waist to keep them upright.

“Please,” Whumpee begs. “Whatever they’re paying you, it c-can’t be enough to-“

“Damn right it ain’t enough. Whumpers! Get me some light. And where’s that sedative?”

A case is tossed into the hole, and a shaky light illuminates the two figures in the dirt. Whumper catches the packet, bracing it against their chest to unzip it and grabs a syringe. They pull the cap off with their teeth, expertly handling the dose and keeping Whumpee still at the same time.

“No, no— just leave me here! You don’t need me! You can just leave me here please—“ Whumpee struggles in vain as Whumper uses the side of their palm to turn their chin. With the same hand, they bring the needle to sink into the flesh between Whumpee’s neck and shoulder.

“Just lemme— let— jrss,” Whumpee blinks, eyes wide and unfocused before they roll away in a haze, “jus let— ff-mmh…” Whumpee’s head slumps, and their body goes slack.

“That’s it, sleepy time…” Whumper mutters, shifting Whumpee’s weight closer to their body.

“Christ, you went fast. Ok. We’re good, boys! Bringing ‘em up!”

[lindsay00000008]

Away from Here Pt. 2

Part 1

Initial prompt by @sowhumpshaped

This post dedicated to @eyehartart, who sent me an ask about it a few months ago :) Thanks for encouraging me to continue!

Even though I'm continuing this story, feel free to use Part 1 as a basis for your own version.

Characters are now gendered (and I kind of love them already)

In light of the poll from the first post, I've decided to make the horse-riding character a caretaker (though he may not always be a good one)

CW: Fem!Whumpee, Male!Caretaker, mentions of abuse, bruising, cuts and scrapes, allusion to assault, general distrust and fear, some witty banter

The poor, disheveled thing that sags into Dion's chest - no longer attempting to stay upright and distant, no longer jerking with an anxious tension that inhabits their spine like a whip laid there every few seconds - is finally asleep, and is, rather unbelievably, a young woman.

Her body is thin and reveals nothing to him of curves and gentle flesh, but the bones that thrust against her skin are fine. He might have thought her a boy, were it not for the glimpse of her ears, peaking through snarls of unevenly-shorn, dirt-caked hair. They’re pierced three times on the top of each, the holes empty of ornamentation. She was once a young lady of good standing, then. Not likely a daughter of the court, but cared for.

At first, Dion had not been able to see past the dirt and matted hair to tell that she was anything other than in need of help. She’d stumbled out of the blackberry bushes and into the clearing like an androgynous personification of lost souls. Dion’s skin still crawls with the shock of her sudden appearance; but more so with the idea that, considering the way her eyes darted and her shoulders twitched, her neglectful state was likely sculpted at the hands of another man. 

Part of him, the untrusting, scoundrel of a man who cares little but for his own interests, tells him she’s just a blind beggar, crying out for sympathy and a bite to eat. It tells him the squishy, warm-hearted part of him, who scooped such a thing up without question, is an idiot. 

But the bruises. Blues and greens and mottled reds, visible beneath the dust. The scratches he sees now, on her neck and shoulders; some from thorns, others older. Deeper. Those were not for show. Nor the way she flinched and whimpered at his grasp when he lifted her onto the saddle, despite her submission to the handling. He has no doubt the bruises carry past the ragged hems of her tunic, and loosens his arms about her waist even now. She wears thin breeches that reach no further than her knees. Her feet are bare, the toes stained almost as dark as the horse’s hide and the ground passing slowly beneath them.

Dion had wanted to kick the horse into a canter, to leave the area faster. But despite that logic, and the young woman’s request, he found himself staying at a brisk walk. His horse was still tired from earlier travels, he reasoned. In reality, he did not want to disturb the woman’s injured body. Funny how a sudden bout of morality found him at this point of his trip. Hadn’t he almost killed a man just nights ago, for trying to steal his boots while he bathed? He wasn’t exactly regretful. Dion is certain that if the woman had met him at that moment, half-naked and roaring like a bear, she wouldn’t have needed clear vision to tell that he was not the kind of man one approached seeking compassion. He truly has no idea what motivated him to suddenly be a gentleman, coming to the aid of one less fortunate. But it’s a nicer feeling than he’d thought.

He considers his options as dry autumn leaves fall around them, approaching the main road to Beuhearth. He had planned to bring her to the city’s shrine as a Servant of Sanctuary, when he’d thought her a boy. He may have been able to get some travel supplies in return for the labor she’d provide. But women aren’t allowed to enter a shrine, much less to clean the altars or pour the elder’s wine. He might still try it, trick them as he was tricked by her mask of filth – but no, the punishment once she’s discovered would be too severe. Try as he might, Dion couldn’t think of a single place in society where a lone woman would be welcome. A whorehouse, maybe. He scoffs at the idea, discarding it immediately. He’d occasionally thought to offer such businesses his patronage, but in the end always shied away from the sunken, tired eyes of the women who called to him from the doorway. Sometimes he thought of his mother, and wondered how she had supported him, after his father left. It always turned his stomach.

But this mangy thing cannot remain his responsibility, can she? Is he to support and care for her, suffer hunger and poverty for her, just because he sat her on his horse? Of course not. He’ll simply take her far away from the country roads and drop her off in the city, where she may live off the compassion of more generous folk. He may even find a tailor shop to take her in, if her hands are any good. That’s more than what he promised.

The land turns from wooded hills to flat prairies. Farms appear on either side of the road as it widens. The city is still a day away, yet the sun already begins to set. Dion sighs, resigned to set up camp rather than ride through the night. The young woman shivers at the cold already, pushing her icy feet between his calves and the horse’s warm body.

“Are you awake?” he asks. Her feet retreat quickly and she stiffens, pulling away from his chest. She breathes in deeply, as if awakening to reality. He waits for her to calm, to breathe out and settle, before he speaks again.

“We will camp soon. There’s a river here. You should bathe, though it’ll be cold – I will try to make a large fire before nightfall.”

She shakes her head, leaning forward as if she stares at the horn of the saddle, or his hands on the reins before her.

“You do not wish to stop for the night?”

“No, I… I do not wish to bathe.”

Dion can’t stop his short laugh from escaping. Her head turns to observe him, her brow pinched and eyes red beneath dark clumps of lashes. He stops laughing when he realizes she’s looking right at him.

“Can you see me clearly?”

“I can,” she says, turning away once more. Her tone is still hoarse, but steadier than it was when he found her.

“What troubled your sight before?” A golden sunset comes soft through white clouds. The path dips and curves, and the sound of rushing water filters through sparse trees, farmland still sprawling along the other side of the road. Dion keeps his spine straight, so as to not crowd her as the horse makes its way down a slope. He waits for her to answer his question, unsure if she will.

“... It was too bright, when I… when I came out.”

“Came out… into the clearing?”

Again he waits for an answer. This time it doesn’t come.

“So, you do not wish to bathe.” he supplies.

She hesitates, then shakes her head.

“We’re almost to the city. Beuhearth, it’s called. I wish to give you clean clothes, so you may have a better chance there – but I won’t waste them if you do not bathe,” he adds, not unkindly.

“What sort of man are you?” comes her faint reply. She must have seen his scars, then. If not the one across his face, then the ones on his rough fingers that hold the reins just below her belly.

“A ruffian. But one who would not neglect to protect a lady in need,” he answers. Her head whips around at that.

“What makes you think I’m a woman?” her tone is suddenly harsh, accusatory. Or fearful.

“My apologies,” he says hesitantly, focusing on the road and away from her intense brown eyes. He doesn’t believe her in the slightest. “But it does not matter to me whether you are a scrap of a woman or a scrap of a boy. I am certainly a scoundrel at times, a man of loose morals. But even I would not harm a…er-”

“A scrap?” she finishes for him, turning away right as her lip twitches upward.

“A scrap, laundered or not. I assure you, your suffering will not appeal to me any more if you are scrubbed clean. It would bring me far greater pleasure to have you comfortable, in clothes not moth-eaten and torn.”

She quiets, likely because he’d guessed her reasoning for refusing to bathe. When she speaks again, it’s a line of questioning Dion had been prepared for, now that her survival is not necessarily tied to escaping down the road with him.

“And why would my ease bring you pleasure? Why help me at all?” she asks, distrust still evident in her posture. He is not insulted by this, though. It shows her intelligence, at least, even as she agrees to his help.

“Hmm. Not many wish to travel alongside me, upon seeing my scars and the sword at my hip. Those that approach me do so to steal or to fight, not to ask for help or companionship. I have met no one but equally unpleasant scoundrels along my path, and it would be foolish of me to turn away a person who will not slit my throat or steal my boots.”

“I would not do such things.”

“Whether you would or would not, you will not.”

“Do you mean, because I cannot?”

“I said no such thing.” His smile colors his words. “What is your name? I am Dion. The beast beneath you is Fleur.”

“I am… Willow,” she says, just as they pass such a tree, dangling its thin arms in the slow-moving water. The path trails along the river now, lined with rocks and bushes.

“Surely not.”

“I’ve elected to change it. Just now.” Her voice displays a defensiveness, a haughtiness somehow, behind the rasp and the unease still coloring it. He wonders if she’s blushing.

“You certainly are decisive. But do let me know if you change it again, Willow.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the name,” she mutters.

“Nothing at all,” he agrees.

Part 3