#terrifying whumper

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumptober No. 1

Race Against Time

Search Party // Panic Attack // "If only we could hold on.”

TW: lady whump, blood, lady whumpee, multiple whumpees, male whumper

Welcome to Whumptober everyone 3:) I am doing all 31 days~

*~*~*~*~*

Caretaker kicked Whumper’s door to the cabin open, gun in hand, barrel finding Whumper’s chest immediately and locking on. Immediately. Because Whumper was sitting on the couch with a book in hand, waiting for Caretaker to arrive. At the commotion he raised his head and smiled.

“Ah, Caretaker, I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“Where is he?” Caretaker all but growled. Whumper didn’t answer. He tilted his head to the side, eyes locked on Caretaker’s the whole time, as if Caretaker wasn’t holding a gun that could kill him in heartbeat. A small squeeze of the trigger, so gentle a touch for such a big weight off her shoulders.

Caretaker could kill him, she realised. Right here, right now. She could be free of him forever. A tremor ran through her hands at the possibility. So tempting. So tantalising. If she killed him she wouldn’t get Whumpee back.

“You know you really shouldn’t aim those things at someone you don’t intend to shoot.”

Caretaker’s eyes flashed. “Try me.”

Whumper hummed, snapping the book shut and placing it on the table beside the couch. Caretaker swallowed, planting her feet on the ground, expecting him to stand.

Instead he crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee and leaning his elbow on the armrest, his hand propping up his cheek. Completely relaxed.

“Where’s Whumpee?” Caretaker ground out through clenched teeth. Whumper smiled coyly, his eyes the half lidded fox gaze, that saw everything. It was as if he could strip back skin with his gaze, peeling back layers and peeking inside you to see how you thought, how you felt, what made you tick, what made you scared, what made you scream. The world his playground; people his play things.

“Did you come alone?” Whumper asked instead. The question sent shivers down her spine because yes, yes she did come alone and he knew that. She could feel it. He just asked to let her know he knows.

Caretaker stepped closer, hopefully menacing, but her body was thrumming with a mixture of fear, anxiety and adrenaline. She had to keep her nerves for god sake, her hands clammy on the grip.

She clicked off the safety. “Where’s Whumpee?”

Whumper smiled. It made the hairs on her arms stand on end, at attention, every fibre of her being registering the threat he was to her. And he wasn’t even moving. He was just sitting. Fuck! She was freaking out.

“Look at you, Caretaker. Taking the initiative, I told you that you’re magnificent,” Whumper purred. “If you could see yourself right now you’d know what I’m talking about.”

Caretaker swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that formed in her throat. This is just his trick, his verbal disarmament. Reel you in with his honeyed words and once he has you, he…

Caretaker steeled her resolve, raising the gun a little higher, about to ask where Whumpee was again when Whumper stood suddenly and she faltered. His movements fluid like a cat, a deadly grace as he towered over her, humming. She fought the urge to step back.

“How long do you think a person can survive without breathing, Caretaker?” He asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, echoing off the wooden cabin walls and back to her ears.

“What?” She asked.

Whumper put his hands behind his back, observing her down his nose now. “How long do you think someone can survive without oxygen?”

Dread opened in her guy like a black hole, yawning and threatening to pull her organs into it. “Wh— what does that have to do with anything?” She stammered, hating her mutinous voice.

Whumper hummed, shrugging. “It may or may not have something to do with where Whumpee is,” he said casually. Caretaker paled.

“So would you say a minute? Two minutes? Say, how long was this delightful chat, hmm?” He crooned, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Whu—” Panic and rage blinded her at his words, heart jumping into her throat because how long have they been speaking? Was it longer than a minute? Two? Three? Can normal people go without oxygen for three minutes? Could Whumpee?

She abandoned the thought of shooting Whumper, clicking the safety on and opting instead to hit him with it. A blunt weapon, probably more effective than killing him if she wanted Whumpee back and he caught her wrist before it could make contact.

How— she didn’t even see him move. Her eyes widened as she yanked back, but her wrist didn’t budge from his grip. His eyes flashed down at her, tipping his chin back as a smirk slowly made its way across his face.

He reached his free hand to her face, cupping her cheek. She flinched at the contact, but Whumper didn’t make fun of her for it. She was trembling violently, her index finger pulsing, reaching for the safety to click it off and shot him because she had to get away—

Whumper yanked her closer, making her lose her balance and stumble forward into him. He plucked the gun from her hand, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “So bold of you, Caretaker. To think you could threaten me.”

Tears welled behind her eyes. “Please,” she begged. “Please just tell me where Whumpee is. Please let him go.”

Whumper tilted his head, regarding her. “And what do I get in return?” He mused but Caretaker didn’t have time to negotiate! Whumpee didn’t have time!

“Anything!” She blurted out, desperate, trying to pull her hand free from his grip. “Please! Please! He could be dying! He could be dead, please!”

“Anything,” Whumper repeated, tasting the word on his tongue. “How interesting. Tempting. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Caretaker lurched forward, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, eyes wide. “Please! Anything! Please, just free Whumpee! Please!”

Whumper paused. “Are you begging?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m begging you, please!” She cried, her heart racing, feeling sweat bead on the back of her neck, horribly conscious about the passing seconds ticking by while Whumpee could be dead or dying, or unconscious.

Whumper’s smile glinted with a knife’s edge as he leaned his head down to hers. “You don’t look like you’re begging, Caretaker.”

Ice flushed her blood, her knees locking as her heart stuttered, shaking like a dog during halloween. Her mouth suddenly very dry, but she was hesitating. She couldn’t— no, for Whumpee.

Her face flushed with shame as she dropped to her knees in front of him. He still didn’t release her wrist, holding it above her head now, tears burst from her lower eyelids, spilling over her cheeks. She stared at his feet.

“Please,” she whispered, tightening her free hand into a fist on her thigh. “Please let him go.”

“Look at me, Caretaker,” Caretaker stared at the ground, she didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. But Whumper didn’t let her have any of her dignity. He sat down and tilting her head up to look at him. “I’ll release Whumpee, if you take his place.”

Caretaker flinched. “What?” She asked with a stolen breath.

Whumper smiled, sitting back in the couch and propping his head up on his hand again, his eyes dancing with a pleased maliciousness.

“You heard me, Caretaker. Those are my terms. You for Whumpee,” he said, his eyes flicking to something behind her. “And I’d say you need to decide quickly.”

Caretaker searched his face for a trick, for a lie, for any hint that he was joking but he wasn’t. He was just watching her with his cut amber eyes, smirk on his face because he already knew her answer.

She looked away from him. “Fine,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Now let Whumpee go.”

Whumper sighed. “Alright. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

Caretaker’s eyes burned, narrowing into a glare. “No, give me Whumpee! Now! He could be dead already!”

Whumper tightened his hand on her wrist but she didn’t wince or show it hurt. She needed Whumpee. To see him safe and sound. Whumper leaned forward, making her lean back almost falling if he didn’t have a tight on her wrist keeping her up.

His hot breath fanned her face, blowing a stray hair as he spoke. “I can leave Whumpee to die all I want, Caretaker. I’m the only one who knows where he is, now do you want to save him, or do you want to refuse me and waste more time?”

Caretaker pulled her wrist back and this time he let her. Still glaring, she kept his gaze. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to get me something from that room over there,” he said, nodding his head to the right. Caretaker turned her head to follow his order and nodded.

She got to her feet quickly, speed walking over, but Whumper stopped her. “Don’t you want to know what?”

“Tell me when I’m there,” she spat, throwing the door open. Hanging from his wrists, covered in blood with a blindfold and a gag stood Whumpee. His head hanging on his chest. Caretaker covered her mouth with her hands and screamed into them, running in and putting her hands on his face.

“Whumpee! Whumpee! Can you hear me?!” She pressed her ear to his chest, sobbing when she heard his heartbeat. He was alive. He was alive, he was alive, he was alive, he was alive.

“You know,” Whumper drawled from behind her. “If you’re coming in guns blazing, you really should do a quick check to see if the thing you want is already there.”

“You tricked me,” Caretaker cried, turning her furious gaze to Whumper. Instead, her eyes found the barrel of a gun.

He smiled lazily. “Not at all, to be fair, breathing is hard when you’re strung up like that, you wouldn’t think it, but your arms squeeze your chest and make it harder to breathe, especially when you’re gagged and dangling.”

“You’re a bastard,” she hissed.

“Compliments don’t get you anywhere with me, Caretaker, but you’ll learn. Maybe the first thing I’ll do to you is leave you like Whumpee here, hmm?” He asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Caretaker took a cautious step back, one arm stretched to protect Whumpee, keep him behind her.

“I don’t care what you do to me, just let him go.”

“Mmf?” Caretaker whirled to face Whumpee, eyes wide.

“Whumpee? Whumpee! Can you hear me?” She reached up and pushed the blindfold away from his eyes. “Whumpee. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened, flicking to Whumper and back to Caretaker again, struggling in his chains. Trying to speak behind the gag.

“Hold on, I’ll—”

She felt Whumper’s presence behind her and jumped, going to hit him but he grabbed her by the back of her neck and squeezed until she stopped struggling. Whumpee’s struggles increased tenfold, screaming into the gag as Whumper leaned down to Caretaker’s ear.

A smile in his voice as he said, “or maybe, I’ll just keep you both.”

[whumpitisthen]

Whumpee who always has a blindfold on. They don't like it, but eventually they get used to it. Whumper loves them jumpy, dependent and vulnerable. And they just look so sweet when they don't know what's coming.

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

Whumpee who, when rescued, doesn't want anything bad to happen to whumper.

Whumper who's in prison, on death row or being tortured by whumpees team.

Whumpee who keeps begging for people to be nice to whumper, to not torture them, to not kill them, to just leave them alone in a cell.

Whumpee who is so scared that they'll do anything even slightly bad and become like whumper, or become the living weapon whumper had wanted them to be, that they'd rather nothing happen to the person that had tortured them for months.

Because if something bad happened to whumper, it would be whumpees fault. And they couldn't live with that.

[whump-galaxy]

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you like the others. I just want a little information.”

[shywhumpauthor]

Whump aesthetic of the day: a Whumpee having a coughing fit, but it’s so bad they can’t manage to inhale which makes it so they can’t cough right which only makes them need to cough more so they’re stuck in this awful cycle of choking on their own spit and breath

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Marks

(Masterlist)

girl help i can't stop making bonus content

this is set right around Part XIII, in regard to the “I should probably give you more visible marks.” comment.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, obedient whumpee, somewhat reluctant whumper, dehumanization, power imbalances, physical abuse, minor blood, brief drug mention, death mention)

==============

He got approximately ten million fucking emails calling him an arsonist, or telling him that the experiment is an accident waiting to happen, or asking why he was letting the A-bomb walk around off-leash, why he was letting the bomb walk at all. Accusations he wouldn’t dare repeat. It was all so stupid. Delta was good. Paris never worried about him fragging. But the appearance of insubordination was damning all on its own. It was not a good situation.

Unfortunately, the messages kept coming. From staff he actually respected, too. People he needed. He didn’t even know how word reached them that quickly. He sometimes forgot just how scared they were of Delta. It had never been a popular project. That night, he received many requests for him to be killed outright. Not fucking happening.

Fucking Nezu telling him what to do with his fucking psychic. He was more mad about that than he ever could have been at Delta. That was why he’d gone easy on him. It gave him serious pause whenever his wants overlapped with Nezu’s — sometimes enough to evaporate them completely. He really wasn’t in the mood.

Something had to be done though, by the time the next meeting rolled around. They had to know that Delta had been punished for it, that Paris didn’t just let him get away with everything.

Delta didn’t fight him on it — not that he’d expected him too. He kneeled in front of the desk like he’d been asked. Paris leaned back against it, hitting the pen a few more times than he needed to. 

Delta looked bad. That day had been the only time Paris had ever seen him cry — even weeks later, he hadn’t seemed to recover from it. His eyes were still so pleading, in a way they’d never been before. It was unsettling.

Paris readjusted the only ring he wore on his right hand. It was sapphire — and it was clean. There wasn’t any reason to drag it out. He tilted Delta’s face up a little, tucking the slick hair back behind the webbed fin of his ear. 

“Hold still.” He didn’t want to hit his eye by accident. The jewel was sharp.

He backhanded him hard across the face. Harder than he would have normally. It needed to bruise.

Delta’s head was forced sharply to one side. His hair fell back in his face, totally obscuring it when he looked down at the floor. He didn’t outwardly react, but his next breaths came out shallow and shaky. Yeah, that hurt. 

Paris cupped his face again, moving it back up to examine the injury. It’d landed where he wanted it to — a thin cut right along his cheekbone. He could see the spot where the bruise would form over the next couple hours. Delta winced. Paris gently smoothed over the flushed skin with his thumb. 

“I’m sorry.” Delta’s voice was quiet. It was all he would say recently. 

“I know.”

It was hard to be mad at him when he was so clearly repentant. When he was being this good about it. Paris released him. He’d planned on hitting him across the other side of his face as well, in the interest of covering all his angles. It didn’t feel worth it anymore.

“Hand.”

Delta placed his hand gingerly into Paris’s own. Paris tightened his grip around it, supporting the palm beneath so that it’d absorb the full force of it. Knuckles facing up. Paris reached back for the ruler left out on the desk.

It cracked down hard against his knuckles, fast enough that he didn’t really have time to flinch. His injured hand reflexively tightened around Paris’s in the aftermath; it was the only real physical reaction he’d had. His claws dug painfully into Paris’s hand, not yet breaking the skin.

Paris released his grip on the hand. Delta’s hand relaxed and the claws withdrew, but he didn’t pull it back like he’d expected. He just left it resting there in his grasp.

“Other one.” 

He offered it without resistance. Same routine. Paris brought the ruler back down over his other hand, watching as the first signs of bruising appeared upon them. He placed the ruler back down and released his grip on Delta’s hand. 

“Done.”

There wasn’t much else to do, really. Delta was always dressed in long sleeves and ceremonial garb. For the most part, only his face and hands were exposed on vanguard days. It was enough, though. His expression alone was enough. If he just stayed like that, he’d be fine.

Delta folded both of his hands back into his lap, bright purple and blue against the pale white of clothes. His hair fell messily in his face, but parts of his eyes were still visible. He was still looking at Paris in that desperate, shell-shocked way.

“…Easy. You’re fine.” Paris didn’t know what to say to make him normal again. “The sting will be gone in a few minutes.”

For the hands, anyway, though the numbness would remain. The mark on his face would hurt a lot longer. 

Delta nodded slowly. A small amount of blood appeared by the cut. 

Paris gestured for him to lean forward again. Delta did so, cringing a little. Paris pressed a tissue against his cheek to stop the bleeding. He sighed as it bled straight through.

“…You want a bandaid?” He offered. The bruise would still be visible beneath it. 

“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible. He took the tissue from Paris, keeping the pressure there. 

Paris disappeared for a moment, loudly knocking shit over in the overfilled medicine cabinet. He came back with the split bandage. Delta held still as he applied it over the cut, smoothing it out against his cheek. It was pale white, the same color as his clothes, standing out sharply against the dark blue of his skin.

“…Thank you,” Delta said quietly. Sweetly. It fucking killed him sometimes.

Paris felt something strange in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it. He made a small, noncommittal noise as he discarded the paper into the trash. 

Delta touched the side of his face gently with the newly discolored fingers. Bruises on bruises. He put his hand abruptly back into his lap when Paris looked at him, as if he’d gotten caught. 

“We’re done.” Paris waved him off, sliding the ruler back into the drawer. The pen was starting to kick in. He was getting lightheaded. 

Delta rose slowly, giving something like a curtsy before he left. Or maybe his legs were just unsteady. Paris didn’t really care. 

The door closed quietly. Paris slid the lock shut. He pressed his forehead against the wood grain. Definitely lightheaded.

……

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[bltzgore]

@catnykit

.... why can't we have both? 😈

My favorite kind of caretaker, in fact. One with the guardian instinct, and then the raw POWER to back it up.

Some ideas:

- when whumpee is at the bottom of the food chain in a prison, or a lab, or gladiator ring. They get picked on by everyone. Broken bones on a weekly basis, and no where near enough food. Then they endear themselves to caretaker, and suddenly things change. One of whumpee's whumpers goes after them like usual and caretaker thrashes them immediately. Beats them half to death and announces to the rest of the occupants that they showed a good deal of restraint. Anyone to make a move against whumpee will face far worse.

- whumpee pleading with caretaker not to kill someone.

- whumpee being the only one who can calm caretaker down.

- "Lay a finger on them and I will take your arm off."

- "So whumpee, you've got yourself a dog."

- "What a monster."

- angst: whumpee comes sobbing to caretaker after being attacked and instead of stopping to comfort whumpee they rush off to go hunting for the perpetrator.

- coup de gras: the freeze of caretaker's blood when they hear whumpee scream (or scream their name.) And the storm that arrives when they reach them.

- caretaker's wrath makes the earth shake ♥️

Mood music

[letitbehurt]

I want to see more Whumpees who’ve stashed forgettable items, hoping it might eventually help them escape. Or, if Whumpee is no longer trying to escape, then to at least own something. To have the small comfort of belongings, even if they have to be kept a secret. 

I want Whumper to find those belongings, and to remind Whumpee that they don’t own anything.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Okay okay okay so get this - I'm usually not much of a fan of whumpers, especially if it involves dehumanization, pet whump, humiliation, etc., but my brain supplied me with this little whump concept and I needed to share it with people who would enjoy such a thing.

So, the Whumpee has finally done it. They've escaped. Maybe it was an opportunistic escape or maybe it was carefully planned for weeks or even months. They're running. Perhaps they look horrible, perhaps they managed to scrounge clothes fit for escaping, or perhaps the Whumper liked to dress them in fine things.

They're running and - oh! A person!! A normal person! The Whumpee hurries over to them, no doubt startling the man who was walking his dog or carrying groceries into his house. They stumble over their words or perhaps recite a practiced line that they had drilled into themselves, but the man listens. His forehead wrinkles with concern and his jaw goes taut and soon he's nodding and ushering the near-panicked Whumpee inside his home because "Alright, alright. Everything's going to be fine. Let me make a call, okay?"

And he sits the Whumpee down in a nice, normal living room and gives them a nice, normal blanket before stepping away to do as he had promised. Minutes pass, and the Whumpee can't relax. After their time in captivity, they doubted that they would ever be able to relax again. The man's dog keeps them company, laying on the Whumpee's feet until they hear the front door open.

And - no. The Whumpee recognized that voice. They barely manage to stand before the man enters the living room, leading the Whumper inside and laughing at a shared joke. The Whumper is smiling as they approach, but their eyes are dangerous. The Whumpee instinctively freezes, visibly paling as the betrayal sinks in.

The Whumper takes the Whumpee by the arm and tows them to their feet. "I really am so sorry to inconvenience you. I'm still training them."

"Oh, don't I know that feeling." The man laughs, and that's when the Whumpee spots them. Another person had entered the room, obediently standing next to the man as he pulled them into a side-hug. Silent. Eyes empty. Another one, like the Whumpee.

"I'll see you for dinner on Thursday, same time?"

Oh no.

"Of course! Bring your friend, if you want. And Diane is coming, too."

This was much, much bigger than the Whumpee had realized.

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 9

I simply couldn't give this prompt to anyone else. No need to know my blorbos beforehand, you'll figure out their dynamic pretty quick.

Obsession

“This whole thing is really tipping into obsession territory.”

“You’re just now realizing this?”

Declan paused.

“I meant that as a rude comment, Hasan.”

They clicked the menu button and the racers on screen stopped moving. Declan reached over to resume it by clicking Hasan’s controller, but they jerked it away and set it out of view.

“Look here.” He looked. Stupid obedience training. “What do you think I do in my free time?” 

“When you’re not down here?” It took a moment to formulate an answer. When they weren’t in his face, he didn’t often wonder what his kidnapper was up to. “You have hobbies outside of torture, I figure.”

“I crocheted this,” Hasan volunteered, tugging the sleeve of their bolero.

“Really? I would’ve pinned you as more of a fast fashion type, considering your loose morals.” He had seen them wearing clearly upper-end clothing before, but didn’t want to inflate their ego any more than necessary.

The shock collar went off for just a second and he yelped, having nearly forgotten its presence. 

“I own a house. I can afford clothes that won’t fall apart when I so much as breathe on the seams.”

“Ohhhhhh, no wonder your landlord hasn’t checked on me yet.” They snapped their fingers directly in front of his eyes and he flinched. At least it wasn’t another shock.

“I asked you a question, remember? My free time.”

“Did you want a different answer? I said hobbies that aren’t torture.”

“And I’m saying you’re wrong.”

“Right, I forgot there’s another man chained up in every room of- hhhck!” He doubled over, instinctively trying to dodge the hurt. “What?! Do all of your hobbies somehow incorporate torture now?” 

Silence was a strange answer to that question.

“That doesn’t seem healthy.” In more ways than one. The second part almost slipped out before he bit his tongue.

The collar didn’t shock, but it vibrated softly in warning.

“Have you ever hyperfixated on a person rather than a subject or activity?” Hasan asked.

“Oh my god. I’m your hyperfixation.” It didn’t answer their question, but it was the intended conclusion. “Oh my god.”

“You’ve gone pale, Dec.” He jerked away from the hand on his cheek, but the collar nudged him and he let them touch. “Is it really that big of a deal to you?”

“I know what a hyperfixation is like.”

“Well?” They wanted to hear details.

“Well, I don’t know if you hyperfixate the same way I do, but I tend to associate anything and everything back to it.”

“Yes, I as well.”

Nausea slithered somewhere between his stomach and his throat.

“So all of your downtime is spent relating all your favorite things back to hurting me.” Though phrased as a question, it most certainly wasn’t. The spark in Hasan’s eyes understood that all too well.

“What can I say? It’s an obsession.”

Declan turned in his seat staring intently at the television, willing it to unpause so he could stop thinking and play, but it could never be quite so easy. A hand in his hair forced him back to Hasan, now so close their noses could touch. 

“You’re so tense…” A light touch over his sternum. “Let’s unwind with a game. What rules were we already playing with?” The shock remote in the corner of his vision told him they remembered quite clearly, and an attempt to lessen the stakes wouldn’t end well.

“We were playing seven random races for choice of takeout and use of my free time.” Declan couldn’t hide the tremor in his hands as he fiddled with the controller.

“Ah, no, that won’t do. If I lost ownership of your free time tonight I might go mad.” They tapped his cheek in thought. “We’ll restart from race one. I’ll play you for choice of takeout… and choice of weapon.”

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Good carewhumper trope: A whumper who prides themself on being cold, strict, no nonsense when it comes to dealing with whumpee however they see fit, yet enemies and allies alike can see how soft whumper is when it comes to whumpee to the point it's so painfully obvious to everyone but whumper

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (VI)

Part one here…

Continued from here…

*~*~*~*~*

Kit’s body ached everywhere. It hurt to sleep if you could even call it that. Every time Kit turned over or moved his head, or adjusted the pillow he was in pain.

The dull aching everywhere nearly blinded Kit to the fact that he was in a bed. Lying down. Unrestrained. With a pillow!

Which meant that he wasn’t with Ambrose.

Had he… had he woken up when he was supposed to be doing Ambrose’s bidding, because this wasn’t a foreign bed this was Kit’s bed. He knew because he could feel the springs in his old mattress digging into his ribs.

The same mattress Superhero had told Kit to get rid of, but Kit just couldn’t part ways, and Kit’s pillow was perfect for him, not too firm but hard enough to support his creaking neck.

Kit was at home!

Ambrose fucked up, Kit could call Superhero right now, tell him exactly what’s going on and what Ambrose did, he could catch Ambrose!

Kit was halfway out of the bed as this thought crossed his mind, a giddy feeling numbing the bruises, cuts and trauma his muscles had endured with the fucking cattle prod—

His electricity.

Kit wasn’t wearing the rubber gloves. Or rubber anything for that matter!

Kit fell out of bed, his leg not quite carrying his weight, but it didn’t matter.

Kit sat on the floor, licking his lips in anticipation as he brought his hand in front of his face and with bated breath… clicked his fingers.

Blue sparks cackled around Kit’s hand like a glove, and it was like Kit was being revived. The relief it felt to see the bright electric blue, to hear the soft buzz of power, to feel the electric currents in the air.

Kit let the power wash over them. He clicked his fingers in his other hand and let the sparks fly from his fist down his arms up to his elbows and from there he just let it rip.

It got to Kit’s shoulders, to his chest, he could feel his hair stand on end from the currents but none of it fazed them. Not one bit. Kit could feel the power thrumming behind his eyes, and he knew he were same colour as his electricity and for a while Kit just sat there completely engulfed in the wash of his power.

It felt like relieving a muscle that had been stuck in one spot for too long and was cramping, or, cracking his back, or, stretching his shoulders in the morning.

Kit’s electricity reinvigorated him with the energy surging through him just because he could.

He was his own conduit.

His own person.

His own mind, not Ambrose’s puppet, he was 100% Kit right now, because Ambrose fucked up with his twisted compulsion. Kit almost cried with joy.

Kit let his electricity dim and got to his feet with a renewed fire to find Superhero and tell him everything… but first… Kit needed a shower, he needed to feel the warm water pound on his back and relax the rest of his aching muscles.

Kit looked to his bedside table and saw his phone plugged in and charging. Ambrose really did make sure Kit was living a normal life when he wasn’t conscious…

Kit didn’t want to open the phone; he didn’t want to read the text messages he didn’t send. And yet Kit’s feet padded over to his table and picked up the phone. The screen lit up. Kit’s heart dropped as his eyes stared down at the date and time.

He wanted to be sick.

It wasn’t days he was with Ambrose; it wasn’t weeks, it was a month and a half since the docks.

A month and a half of Kit’s lost time… where all he remembered was Ambrose and his cruelty. A month and a half of nobody realising that Kit wasn’t in fact Kit, but Ambrose’s vassal.

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and put in his pin. The same pin it had always been, at least Ambrose didn’t have the foresight to change that.

Instead of going to his messages and torturing himself further, Kit went to his Spotify and clicked into his shower playlist.

How long had it been since he heard music?

A month and a half, a snide voice told them in the back of his head, but Kit ignored it and just let the music wash over them.

Oh yeah, he was going to be singing this at the top of his lungs in the shower.

Kit grabbed a towel, some underwear and made sure to lock the bathroom door just in case. When the hot water hit his back, he let out a long sigh of relief. His shoulders were so tense after Ambrose had made him dangle in chains for who knows how long? The water seemed to get under Kit’s skin and unwind every knot and ache in his muscles leaving him feeling refreshed and calm.

The smell of Kit’s soap and shampoo made him relax even further. It felt as if nothing had happened to him in the last six weeks and that he was just going about his daily routine of waking up, showering, going to work tell Superhero he was tortured.

Kit’s stomach growled the second after he had turned the shower off and he smiled to himself. How normal a feeling it was to be hungry. How entirely mundane, that Kit’s body’s nerves were telling him to eat. Reminding him to do it.

God when was the last time he had tasted food for himself?

Kit got hungrier just thinking about it. He dried himself and dressed as quickly as possible. He stopped the music on his phone, towelling his hair dry, not too bothered with how he looked as he descended into the kitchen, ravenous with hunger.

The smell of bacon made his mouth all but water and it wasn’t until he saw Ambrose that he realised he shouldn’t have smelled bacon to begin with. Ambrose saw Kit too and grinned at him, smirk wicked sharp.

“Morning,” Ambrose drawled. He looked too strange in Kit’s kitchen, a towel over his shoulder and a spatula in his hand he used to turn the bacon over in the pan.

Kit’s hand shot out on instinct, but his electricity simmered from a glove of reassurance to nothing but pathetic sparks as Kit felt the icy sludge of Ambrose’s power creep into his mind.

“Come on, Kit, none of that now,” Ambrose said, clicking his tongue. “I let you sleep in and everything, made you breakfast. Tell me you’ll behave, and I won’t restrain you further.”

Kit bit the inside of his cheek, frozen where he stood. A part of him wanted to lash out and go mad and kill Ambrose where he stood, but another part, a bigger part of him was too scared of being restrained again. He was enjoying the limited freedom Ambrose was giving him, and until seeing the bastard Kit was happy.

God he was so stupid for thinking Ambrose would just let him go, or fuck up in his commands… Kit was such an idiot.

“Well?” Ambrose asked, cocking an eyebrow at Kit, interrupting Kit’s thoughts and reminding him that he hasn’t answered.

Kit’s shoulders sagged at the demoralisation of having to articulate his submission, but Kit could beat himself up about it later. Right now, he was starving, and he wanted to be able to eat unhindered.

“I’ll be good,” Kit said quietly, swallowing his pride.

Ambrose beamed at him like a proud parent and gestured for Kit to sit at his own table. “Good. Sit! Breakfast is almost ready.”

Kit sucked in a deep breath and crossed the room to his table, pulling out a chair, settling heavy into it. He was facing Ambrose as he worked in the kitchen, not daring to take his eyes off of him for a moment. His heart started beating a little faster in his chest as he felt the weight of his phone in his hand.

If he called Superhero right now… Superhero would know. He could come and find Ambrose. Catch him in the act.

“One egg or two?” Ambrose asked, smiling over his shoulder at Kit.

“Uhm, two please,” Kit replied, licking his lips.

“So polite, Kit. Of course. Two eggs coming up,” Ambrose said, turning back to the counter and grabbing two eggs. Kit glanced down at his phone and back at Ambrose quickly. Just in time too because Ambrose turned back to face Kit a fraction of a second later. “See how nice it is when we can be civil.”

Kit forced a smile, which came out more as a grimace, and nodded.

“Could this be the turning point for us, do you think?”

“Maybe,” Kit said, nodding again. “You never know.”

Ambrose smiled, satisfied, and turned back to the pan, cracking the eggs into it. Kit’s fingers moved quickly under the table as he heard the eggs hit the pan with a sizzle and a spit.

He found Superhero’s contact and hovered over it for a second, looking back at Ambrose to see him whistling by the stove and with a heavy swallow Kit pressed the call button and left it on the chair beside him, making sure the volume was down.

But it didn’t matter.

Because a couple seconds after Kit had put his phone down and looked up innocently at Ambrose, he heard the start of the song ‘bad moon rising’ playing by Creedence Clearwater Revival and his blood ran cold. Ice rushed through his veins, and he so very desperately wanted to cancel the call, but he couldn’t move. All he could do was watch as Ambrose reached into his back pocket and answer the call without so much as blinking.

“You know, Kit,” Ambrose said into the phone, his voice echoing because the phones were in the same room. “I really thought we could at least get through breakfast without you throwing a tantrum. Guess not.”

Kit was out of his chair before Ambrose finished the sentence, feet on the wood floor, sprinting, lunging for the front door. He was only two feet away when a piercing screeching sound echoed between his ears and Kit screamed, trying to force himself through it.

He was so close.

He had to power through it.

Then it got too loud. Unbearable and Kit’s leg went like jelly, his vision swimming, the world tilting until he was on the ground, curled up into a tight ball, eyes squeezed shut trying to push out the ringing in his ears. The screeching lessened, leaving a dull ache in its wake and Kit wanted to throw up as the world spun around him.

“Kit, Kit, Kit,” Ambrose chided, feigned disappointment but it sounded so far away. Kit vaguely heard his footsteps approach and knew he had to get away.

Kit turned onto his stomach and reached out to the door, swallowing the bile in his throat with his motion and pathetically half-dragged himself forward. He only got an inch before the heel of Ambrose’s boot slammed down onto the back of Kit’s hand and dug in.

Kit was a wreck. His mind both hazy and frantic, thoughts like bullets shooting through a foggy moor, his chest heaving with the effort of his screams and his pathetic attempts of escape. All Kit saw was Ambrose’s foot draw back before slamming into the side of Kit’s jaw a second later, flipping him onto his back. Ambrose didn’t release Kit’s hand, so Kit was staring at the ceiling, arm twisted above them awkwardly. He must have bit his cheek because the stench of iron overwhelmed his tastebuds as he glared weakly up at Ambrose, eyes still having trouble focusing.

“God, Kit. I will just never get bored of you. Of this. Look at you… so strong, so sure, so noble, and yet there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me.”

Kit pushed weakly at Ambrose’s boot with his free hand, just because he could and just because he didn’t want Ambrose to be right. Kit could do something, he could try and get away. Try and escape. Ambrose hadn’t taken any of the fight from Kit, he was going to defeat Ambrose, someday. Somehow.

He just needed to be patient and let Ambrose think there was nothing Kit could do to stop him…

Yeah.

Kit believed that, or he could, if he forced himself to try and completely disconnect from reality and ignored how well and truly fucked he was.

“Awh,” Ambrose cooed, lifting his leg and stomping it down on Kit’s chest instead of his hand. Kit’s eyes bulged and he wheezed, his body curling around Ambrose’s boot, trying in vain to push Ambrose off of him. It was no use. Ambrose leaned down over Kit, shifting more of his weight onto the leg on Kit’s chest, effectively pinning him to the ground like an ant under a giant’s boot.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this. Tired eyes wide with panic,” Ambrose said, digging his heel in further and grinning when Kit tightened his grip on Ambrose’s ankle and grit his teeth to prevent the scream from escaping his lungs. “The bags really do wonders to the character of your face. Truly, Kit. I must admit I’ll always be a little weak in the knees at the blood staining the inside of your lips when you gasp.”

“Why don’t you take a fucking picture?!” Kit hissed, spit flying from his mouth in anger, rage flaring ugly inside him. “And then leave me the fuck alone!”

Ambrose’s dark eyes smiled down at Kit like a cat’s alight with interest. He didn’t drop the eye contact for a second as he reached into his pocket and took his phone out, snapping a photo of Kit. Kit blinked at the flash, stunned for a moment. Bewildered Ambrose would actually take a picture.

“You’re right Kit. That was a great idea. I think I’ll make this my screensaver.”

“Motherfucker!” Kit howled. Something hideous that could only be described as vengeful wrath fuelling his body as he shot forward from the ground. For a moment Kit could revel in the shock on Ambrose’s face as he hooked his arms around Ambrose’s knee, driving his heels into the ground to push himself forward and flip Ambrose onto his back.

Kit got on top of him, taking every advantage as he saw it. He had a very short window of time where Ambrose’s brain would be trying to catch up with current events, Kit would know. Ambrose had him in a constant state of shock and fear, trying to claw at the situation and adjust but all too slowly.

Kit pinned Ambrose’s shoulders to the ground using his knees. He didn’t even reach for his power. Instead, he punched from the waist, letting out a half-shocked gasp when he felt his knuckles collide with Ambrose’s perfect cheekbone.

Was he dreaming?

No. Even if this was a dream, Kit didn’t care. He didn’t have time to dwell on things.

Act now, think later.

Ambrose struggled under Kit, but Kit laughed a little giddy as he sent his second punch straight for Ambrose’s throat. Ambrose gasped under him like a fish from water and it was a bit addicting seeing him choke on air. Seeing him being strangled for once, breath robbed of him by Kit, instead of the other way around.

Kit punched Ambrose’s temple, but he felt Ambrose’s familiar ice-cold touch slide down the muscles in his arm and slow the impact of it, so Ambrose wasn’t knocked out cold. Which was a pity, but it also meant Kit got to punch him again. This time Kit’s knuckles crunched against Ambrose’s nose.

If Ambrose was able to get a hold of his power for a moment to stop Kit’s punch that meant he needed to knock him out now.

At that thought Kit’s hand ignited like a match dropped to petrol his electricity crackling happily around his fingers, blue sparks flaring and turning almost red. Kit grinned down at Ambrose who’s struggles renewed tenfold. Kit dropped his hand to Ambrose’s face and stared mesmerised by the reflection of his power in Ambrose’s dark eyes, like fire glinting off marble. In the reflection Kit saw himself too and he recoiled in horror.

Ambrose grinned below Kit as Kit’s electricity dissipated with a weak whizzing sound. Seeing Ambrose’s grin, Kit’s arm moved before his mind did and this time his punch landed straight on Ambrose’s temple. Ambrose’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp under Kit, his head hitting the ground with a gentle thump.

Kit’s eyes blew wide, not wanting to move at first. His hand reached down and pulled Ambrose’s eyelid down and saw that he was actually unconscious. Then Kit was on his feet, running to the bathroom and slamming the light on.

He stopped in front of the mirror over the sink, and it was still there.

Kit stepped closer to the mirror, staring deep into the reflection that didn’t look like Kit. He was used to his eyes turning an electric blue when he used his power, but his eyes… the eyes reflected back at them were a violent scarlet, and not just his eyes. The veins under his eyes were the same garish, bright red mixed with a few of Kit’s familiar electric blue and a deep purple where the two colours collided.

Kit reached a shaky hand up to touch the veins and saw his hand still coated in the same mix of red and blue and purple. He clicked his fingers and electricity buzzed to life in his palm, his electric blue and Kit nearly sighed in relief.

Until the red sparks started flying again and shot out at the light in the bathroom. Kit flinched as glass shattered above him and fell like twinkling rain down onto the tiles with a clatter. When Kit looked back at the mirror those red eyes stared back hauntingly at him, and Kit swore for a moment that his eyes smiled like Ambrose’s.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) — @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whatwhumpcomments @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @princess-bubble-blossom @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

Whumpee who when rescued gets handcuffed for their own safety. Sure, the people around them are simply trying to protect them, but they don’t know that.

[the-whumpening]

The Caged Tiger | Part 1

Masterpost | Next

CW: captivity, needles, blood, threats of violence and death, restrained, dehumanization

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

The oncoming army fades from Ash’s vision, warbling green magic replacing the bright snow all around him. As if attached to a string, he feels himself being pulled—a harmless tug at first, but quickly yanking him off his feet. Within the green mist, a cacophony of voices clamor: it’s as if he’s in the middle of a tunnel, with his friends calling him on one end and confused strangers on the other. But he realizes, with dread, these voices aren’t unknown to him. As he calls out, stretching through the spiraling path before him, the portal slams shut. He tumbles to a hard stone floor, catching himself on his hands and knees.

“Wow,” one familiar voice muses. “I didn’t know it could do that!”

“Indeed,” the other replies.

A slender hand grasps his hair and lifts his head; icy spears of panic pierce his spine. He may not know exactly where he is, but he does know his captor.

Ozmund smirks coolly, a devious glint in his narrowed eyes. “You look quite different, Ash—I almost didn't recognize you.”

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

A nagging ache radiates throughout Ash’s body. But it isn’t the soreness that wakes him; rather, it’s the sharp, jabbing pain in his arm. He tries to jerk away from the source as he groggily comes back into consciousness, but his arm refuses to move, as if bound in place.

“You should stop your whinging; it’ll only make this worse,” Ozmund calmly chides, drawing up the plunger of his syringe. The chamber floods with blood, and Ash’s stomach churns at the sight. He turns his head, a cold sweat forming on his brow. As he wriggles, the cold metal around his neck presses into his skin; the attached chain clangs against itself.

What–? Is this . . . a collar?

Flashes of memory return through the queasy haze: a fight with Owen, frantic and feral, each exchanging hit after heavy hit; then a puff of sweet-smelling perfume, and the room swirling as he crashed to the floor. In the dreamlike stupor, he could feel his bare back against the stone wall and the stretch of his arms above his head.

Finally fully awake, fear and rage take the place of his confusion. He tries to calm his panic; he’s not sure if Ozmund knows about his new form, but he doubts anything good could come of him finding out. Stay calm, stay alert. He repeats Kane’s words to himself like a mantra. Use your head.

With as little movement as possible, he takes in his surroundings. The room is cold and sterile—nearly every surface is made of stone or metal. Clean, glass-framed cabinets hold an array of tools he can only guess at the purpose of. Aside from his stable-like holding cell, the rest of the space seems to be set up as a laboratory. What exactly does he do here? His muscles shake against his will—both from the fatigue and terror wracking his body as well as his desperate clinging to his human state.

“Oh, please. A beast, afraid of the sight of blood?” Ozmund scoffs. He withdraws the syringe, pressing a cloth against the wound. A shimmer of green passes through Ash’s veins, and the puncture disappears as Ozmund removes the cloth. Did he just . . . heal me?

Ash tries to speak, but terror has gripped his throat in a tight embrace. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

Ozmund ignores his panicked squeaks. He deposits the contents of the syringe into a vial, then cleans his hands and drops his equipment on a nearby tray, all the while leaving his back turned towards Ash. Taking advantage of the moment out of his line of sight, Ash pulls uselessly against the restraints. They don’t budge; he realizes that not even his legs are entirely free. He wonders if his bindings are reinforced with magic—even his immense strength proves futile against them. Though he tries to subdue his terror, barely-audible keening cries slip out from his quick, panicked breaths.

With an exasperated sigh, Ozmund turns on his heel. He stalks closer to Ash, each sharp tap of his boots against the hard floor echoing in Ash’s ears. His voice low and ominous, he slams a hand on the wall beside Ash’s head and leans in. “You will cease that pathetic mewling.” For a reason Ash can’t begin to fathom, his expression almost . . . softens. “Don’t fret. I have no intention to kill you anytime soon. I want so much more from you than you can give, I assure you.

"After stealing away my apprentice and ruining all my plans, well, the first thing on my mind is—of course—revenge.” A devilish grin creeps across his face, and he drags a long, manicured nail down Ash’s cheek. “But," he continues, "I have something more practical planned. Such a unique specimen like this, delivered so unexpectedly on my doorstep? I'd be a fool to pass up the chance; I've had my eye on studying you for quite some time. It's funny—I've heard you were trying to become a scholar yourself. Is that right? The little kitten playing Wizard with Nekane's washed-up uncle!"

From within his overcoat, Ozmund reveals Ash’s spellbook. "You won't have any need for this now." Emerald flames erupt from his hand and engulf the book; within seconds, all of Ash’s hard work—the undeniable proof of his intelligence—is reduced to a pile of soot on the ground. Ozmund dusts off his hands and lifts Ash’s head up by the chain. "Follow my orders and serve me well, and you might live long enough to see your friends' inevitable rescue mission. Test my patience, however, and I'll send you back to them—Piece. By. Piece."

A shudder ripples up Ash’s spine, and he fights to keep his expression stone still. As much as his feral side wants to fight back—to lash out at Ozmund, rend flesh from bone, and destroy everything in his path to return to his friends—he knows he can't risk it. Ozmund is far more powerful than he can even imagine, and far less predictable. He can’t seem to anticipate any of Ozmund’s actions; every shift in his demeanor is frightening and unexpected. For once, Ash genuinely fears for his life.

"I can't say I'm not a little disappointed," Ozmund says. "Where's your fight, cat?"

Ash remains silent, dropping his gaze to the floor and turning his head away in shame. He wonders the same; he’s never let fear grab him so fiercely before, but now . . . he can’t help but be paralyzed. Since when has practicality and personal safety mattered to him in the face of danger? Why do I feel so helpless?

"Well, no matter."

He tenses, trying not to flinch, as Ozmund snaps his fingers. The shackles around Ash’s limbs fall away, leaving behind sore impressions in his wrists and a weakness in his knees. What kind of trick is this? What's going on?

"We'll coax that rage out of you soon enough." With a tug of the leash-like chain, Ozmund pulls Ash along behind him.

[rat-father]

Pet whumpee and robot whumper hhmmm

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

Living weapon whump where the protagonists don’t even realise that whumpee is a person to start with. The protagonists think they’re looking for some sort of legendary sword or magical weapon that went missing years ago. Maybe they work for whumper, trying to get their mentor’s signature weapon back after it was ‘stolen’. Or, maybe, whumper is their enemy, and they’re trying to find their secret weapon before the opposing team does. Then, instead of some dangerous curse buried underground, they find fragile-looking whumpee who saw one small chance to flee whumper and took it. Whumpee, who looks at the team terrified of being forced back into battle, the place they’ve been hiding from for so long. The protagonists, now realising they have to pick between annihilating the enemy with ease and winning everything in the blink of an eye, or putting whumpee’s safety first, despite the fact that it could cost them everything.