#whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper

[octopus-reactivated]

Lab Whumpee taken in by Doctor Caretaker. All the experiments left Whumpee's body in miserable state, so Caretaker tries to treat them to the best to their ability, to let them heal. They give Whumpee painkillers and medicine in attempt to fix all the failing organs...

But Whumpee thinks it's just another experiment done on them.

[deluxewhump]

I Know You Remember Me

John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.

CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably

-

“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”

The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.

His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.

The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.

John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.

“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”

The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.

“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”

The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.

“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”

That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.

“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”

He stopped that train of thought.

“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”

The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”

He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.

He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.

“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.

“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”

Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.

“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”

The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.

“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.

“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”

He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.

“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”

He nodded again.

John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”

Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.

“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Paulo.”

He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.

“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.

John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”

Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”

An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.

He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”

“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”

Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”

“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.

“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”

The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”

“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”

John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.

The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”

Paulo glanced down.

So he���d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.

Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.

John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.

“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”

Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.

“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”

Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.

“You wanna do this next part?”

Paulo didn’t answer.

John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”

Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.

He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.

Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.

“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”

Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”

So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”

Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.

“Are you hungry?”

Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”

“…Are you scared?”

The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.

He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.

“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”

He nodded.

“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”

“To Jack?”

“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Horses. You wanna come?”

He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.

“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”

Paulo did as he asked.

Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”

He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”

“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”

“No?”

“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”

A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.

“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”

“No,” his patient said in a small voice.

“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”

It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.

John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”

“I said you could.”

“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”

Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”

He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.

When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.

“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”

He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.

Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry��� to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.

[justbreakonme]

A casually suicidal whumpee constantly mouthing off to who they think is their new whumper but who is, in actuality, a very exasperated, reluctant caretaker.

[hyper-real-hedgehog]

whumper turned whumpee + caretaker turned whumper so good, vengeful caretaker making whumper feel tenfold the pain they caused, but consider the final role switch: whumpee turned caretaker, just, finding the former captor chained up and beaten and whumper is afraid thinking they're there for revenge too, and even believes they deserve it but is still about to beg for mercy ('whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper' is also my beloved) but when whumpee asks 'what happened to you' it's unmistakably worry, genuine sympathy, and they confront caretaker like 'no one deserves this, i would know'

[pigeonwhumps]

Flinching

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 2: flinching

@febuwhump

Asim tries to introduce himself to Morgan. It doesn't go too well.

1.1k

CWs: self-dehumanisation, expecting to be punished, wanting to be punished, caretaker new whumper, bad caretaker (for a bit), conditioned whumpee

Morgan's looking out of the window when the new person enters.

It's been a strange few days. Rhian is nothing like its old handlers. Her gentleness hasn't left yet, and for some reason she expects it to share her bed. She seems happy with the arrangement, and Morgan doesn't understand why she'd be so willing to be close to it, to let it touch her, when she could just as easily store it elsewhere, but it's… a very acceptable situation.

When the door creaks open, Morgan scrambles away from the window and sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, arms behind its back, gaze on the floor. Exactly how a weapon should sit, subservient, ready to be taken out and used if the person entering wishes, dangerous hands safely out of the way. It's the best it can do with no safety restraints.

It's not Rhian's footsteps, or Asha's even. Morgan has no idea who it is. Its throat tightens. Is it to be used now?

The footsteps pause, before continuing, coming to a halt in front of Morgan.

"Er. Hi. I'm Asim. I haven't met you before, but Asha's ill so I'm going to change your bandage instead."

Morgan flinches back as Asim's hand reaches for its ankle, jerking its leg out of reach. It's not safe and it's a surprise and Rhian says it's allowed to move. It pulls its leg up to its chest, trembling.

"I'm trying to help you, Morgan," says Asim, sounding annoyed, and Morgan freezes. What if Morgan's only allowed to move around Rhian? Is it going to be corrected for this? It will be, it knows it, it's heard that tone of voice before.

The weapon doesn't know how correction works here. It doesn't have a control harness, so there must be some other method.

"You don't need to be so scared, I'm not going to hurt you." Morgan doesn't move. It knows that. It's a weapon, it can't be hurt, it's just going to be corrected. Asim sighs. "Look, I'm going to fetch Rhian. You just… stay here, yeah? I'll be right back."

Asim leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Is Rhian going to correct it then? She must be, and for some reason Morgan feels a pang in its chest, its heart-rate increasing. It's malfunctioning again. If it's going to be corrected, it's not safe out here. It drops off the bed and crawls over to the cabinet, climbing inside. With the door shut behind it it's safer. It feels safer, even if that feeling is an aberration and not something it should care about. Even without a lock it's… better. Its heart rate is decreasing.

There's voices outside, and Morgan strains itself to hear, curled up in a tight ball. Its hearing isn't as accurate as it was, although it hasn't been obedient enough to bring that up to Rhian yet, but it can still hear Rhian and Asim open the door.

"... like I did you. And they just… where are they?"

"They're safe. I can guess where they are. But Asim, you can't treat us both the same. I might've been imprisoned for seven years but I knew you were on my side when I arrived. I was confident enough to ask things, even if it took a while to come out. Morgan… they don't know they're safe. They still think we want to use them, Asim, it's what they've been trained for. You can't just expect them to trust you."

"They thought I'd hurt them?"

"They wouldn't call it that, but yeah. Let me calm them down and then you can say hello."

"I'll leave them to you then. Let me know when they're ready."

"Yep."

The door shuts, and footsteps approach the cabinet. Morgan flinches hard when there's a knock on the door, hitting its head hard against the wooden ceiling.

"Hey Morgan. It's just Rhian here. You're not in trouble, but when you're ready to come out I have some food for you. I'll wait on the bed."

Rhian walks away, and Morgan takes a deep breath, then another. It pushes the door open before it can inconvenience people for any longer.

Rhian smiles at it. "Hey there sweetheart. Can I check your head when you get over here? That was a nasty bang."

Morgan nods before crawling across to the bed. Rhian makes a face but doesn't help, and that's a more than acceptable state of affairs. It has to do something on its own or it's entirely useless. It bends its head to allow Rhian to see.

"It doesn't look too bad. Bet it hurts like hell though."

"Weapons don't feel pain," replies Morgan automatically. Rhian raises an eyebrow, and it adds hurriedly, "It is an uncomfortable sensation though." In multiple places, actually, its ankle too, but it isn't going to mention that.

"I'm going to give you some painkillers then. It's about time for your next dose. And then you can eat."

Morgan swallows the pills and looks at the plate Rhian's holding, trying to disguise its eagerness. The sandwich smells so nice, and the nutrition – food – here actually has taste and texture. It rests the plate on its lap as it eats, just like Rhian does. She chuckles lightly.

"I knew you had a sweet tooth. Luckily we had some jam left." She pauses. "Asim's not the most tactful, but he really was just going to change your bandages and say hello. It's okay that you were scared, but you don't need to be. He's not going to… correct you or whatever it is you call it."

"Weapons don't feel emotions," whispers Morgan. Weapons don't feel. It can't forget that.

"It's only human to feel, there's nothing wrong with it."

"But it's not human, it's only a weapon, it's against this weapon's programming to feel." The weapon's malfunctioning again, it's arguing with its handler, but it can't seem to help it, she doesn't know much about weapons. It almost wishes it could be corrected, to be rid of these aberrations that just keep getting worse.

"Oh, sweetheart. You're so very human. I'm just not sure how to convince you of that."

They pull Morgan into a warm hug before it can protest again. Morgan buries itself in them. They might have some strange ideas about weapons but they really are very warm.

[aswallowimprisoned]

This is a fucking classic

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a continuation to “Begging to be hurt + starvation” set some time after whumpee has been rescued and caretaker finds out about whumpees conditioning after trying to give them food?

Hii, yeah of course I can! I’ve reread this so many times that I can’t tell anymore if I like it, but I did my best haha... hope you like it, Anon <3

(this one, just like the first part, is pretty much all @boxofsilence’s idea, I just made it into a drabble :) )

CW: self harm tw, food tw, starvation, conditioned whumpee, aftermath of whump

Continued from here

-

“C’mon Whumpee, you have to eat something, please.”

It’s been a week since they were found in Whumper’s house, kneeling in a cell, more scars than Caretaker could count littering their body.

And they haven’t eaten since.

“You can’t go without food for this long, love. I can make you anything you want, just tell me what and I’ll get it for you.”

Whumpee raises their eyes, and Caretaker fights the urge to look away from the hollowness lurking there. No more glowing smiles or hearty laughter resides behind their gaze – there’s only fear and submission where there once stood happiness and curiosity.

“Please, I don’t want to be h– I, I just don’t want to–” Whumpee closes their mouth and lets the words die unspoken, face falling as well as their head when their stomach growls.

“Whumpee, please. If you don’t eat soon, I’ll have to call the doctor. I don’t want to force you to do anything but we’re running out of options here and letting you starve isn’t one of them.”

Wrong choice of words, Caretaker realizes as soon as they leave their lips and Whumpee’s face goes completely pale. They hug themself tighter, and Caretaker could cry at the fear on their face. Fear of them.

“Whumpee, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Okay,” Whumpee whispers. Caretaker’s heart leaps at the sound, even though Whumpee seems to be talking to themself more than anyone else. “Okay.”

Caretaker is ready to get up and go to the supermarket when Whumpee drops to their knees.

“Please Caretaker, hurt me.” It is said in such a meek, lifeless voice, they are sure they misheard. And then Whumpee says it again, louder, a little more firmly. “Please, hurt me.”

“What?”

When they look up at Caretaker’s horrified eyes, there’s only blank resolution on their face.

“I can be good. I’m sorry for resisting so long. Please punish me.” And then lower, whispered, scared, “I just, just wanted to not… feel pain for a while. I am sorry.”

Caretaker falls to their knees in front of Whumpee, trying to hold the alarm off their face, knowing that this much horror couldn’t possibly be held back. “Whumpee, I will never hurt you. I don’t, I don’t know what happened, but I promise, I won’t ever cause you pain.”

“Please,” they say again, defeated tears slipping down their cheeks. “I’m so hungry. Please hurt me.”

Caretaker can almost hear their own heart shattering into thousands of pieces as they take a deep, shuddering breath. “Is that, is that something Whumper did to you? Hurt you for food?”

Whumpee simply stares at them and offers their arms, filled with scars in all stages of healing.

Caretaker feels sick.

“We don’t do this here, love. You can eat as much as you want to, whenever you want to. You don’t have to trade pain for food, Whumpee. Not here, not ever again.”

But if anything, Caretaker’s words only seem to make Whumpee cry harder.

“Please. What, w-what do you… want then? I can be good, just please, please I’m so hungry.”

Caretaker holds their breath at the desperation in Whumpee’s face, the way they search their eyes for what condition Caretaker will offer in exchange for something no one should ever be deprived of.

“Nothing. I promise, I don’t want anything but you being okay.”

But Whumpee’s crying doesn’t abate, and they seem to have neither heard nor believed them.

-

The plate is set in front of Whumpee an hour later, a complete meal of what Caretaker knows are their favorites. Still, when they look at it, it's only to look back up at Caretaker with wide, pleading eyes.

They don’t say anything. Whumpee stopped begging right after Caretaker asked them to, on their very first day back home. But their eyes didn’t – the words are still there, written for the world to see even if they aren’t being voiced.

Please hurt me, I’m hungry.

Caretaker shivers and pushes the plate closer to Whumpee.

“Go on. I made it for you, eat up.”

Tears well up in their eyes, but they still make no move to reach for the fork.

“Whumpee I don’t know how else to say it. I won’t hurt you. You don’t have to– you can eat. Please.”

They look up again, but there’s only hopeless pleading in those eyes, and Caretaker can’t help but get up and turn away.

“The food is yours whenever you want it,” they say from the kitchen threshold, not daring to look back. “You don’t have to eat it in front of me. Just please, eat.”

Caretaker leaves, and does their best to keep quiet when they close themself in the bathroom and weep.

-

When they go back to the kitchen, the plate is empty, barely any scrap left. Caretaker’s gaze dances from the plate to Whumpee, who simply stares at them with a not-entirely-here look.

“You did it!” they breathe, a weight lifted from their shoulders as Caretaker steps closer, a smile spreading across their face. “I’m proud of you, love.”

“Thank you,” they murmur, and Caretaker tries not to flinch at the lack of emotion behind the words. “Can, can I have some water? Please?”

“Yeah, of course. Hm, I thought I’d given you a glass, sorry,” they say with a shake of their head towards the table.

Caretaker is reaching for the cabinet when they hear it – drip drip drip. They have their hand around a mug when they remember they did, in fact, give Whumpee a glass.

When they turn their head back, from a distance, they find what they hadn’t before. The source of the dripping.

A puddle of blood surrounds Whumpee’s chair, more trailing down from the deep gash across their arm and falling on sharp pieces of broken glass.

The mug slips from Caretaker’s fingers and shatters on the floor, broken in thousands of pieces as they cross the kitchen and crouch down in front of Whumpee, grabbing their wounded arm and, as gently as they can, opening bloodied fingers that still hold on to the shard they sliced their own skin open with. 

“W-w-why? Why did you do this?”

“You only get to eat if you hurt first,” Whumpee says, voice breathy and distant, words from a past Caretaker would do anything to save them from.

“You didn’t–, didn’t have to–, I told you–“

But Whumpee isn’t there anymore to listen to Caretaker’s stutter. Their eyes grow unfocused before they even start, and by the time Caretaker dares look into their face, it is to see them passing out, slipping from the chair and into Caretaker’s arms as their body goes lax.

With trembling fingers and Whumpee’s limp form in their arms, Caretaker calls for help while staring at their pale face, peaceful in unconsciousness in a way they aren’t anymore when awake.

As they wait for the ambulance, Caretaker can only hug them closer and imagine every single way they can make Whumper pay for this.

[cepheusgalaxy]

We all love the "whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master" trope, right? Let's go a little further

Whumpee is whumper's pet. We know this

Whumper also has this friend, Whumper 2

Whumper really wants to impress their friend, or whatever, so they give whumpee to whumper 2

Whumpee is prepared beforehand. Whumper dress them up; They tell them to obey whumper 2. Tell them that they'll be their new master.

While that, Caretaker and Team find this out. Whumpee will be transported from Whumper's to Whumper 2's house

It's the perfect chance for rescuing them.

Ok, now, for the aesthetic, maybe whumpee is in a truck. No windows. No sounds. Whumpee is locked inside during the way, they're only allowed to move or get out once they reach their destiny

The team works fast

They capture the truck and manage to drive it to their base

While that, whumpee is bracing themselves for the terror they know whumper 2 will be.

Imagine the scene when the team unlock whumpee on the truck, and they are obedient, terrifird, they think Caretaker is whumper 2

They do not manage to think they're finally free

[honeycollectswhump]

Whumper's title

[masterlist]

It was the end of a lazy evening. Caretaker stretched as the credits of the last movie rolled. Whumpee was draped across her lap and had apparently fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. She wasn’t sure if he even witnessed the climax. Even asleep Whumpee had a soft smile on his lips; he seemed truly at peace. 

It hadn’t always been like that.

A year ago, serenity like this would have been unthinkable. Maybe he would have crawled into her lap if she ordered him to, but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t have been able to.

A year ago, he still called himself Pet or Mutt. He would beg for punishment, beg to be allowed necessities like sleep or food. But never for mercy because he’d thought he didn’t deserve it. 

A year ago, Whumpee didn’t even remember they lived together for years prior. 

But he did now, and that was all that mattered. God, how she had missed him and the time they spent together. Caretaker wanted to savor it all, savor every little moment she could spend with him.

With a smile playing on her lips, she brushed a stray piece of hair from his scarred face. She didn’t want to wake Whumpee up but she would have to. No matter how much she wanted it, they couldn’t spend the night like this. In the morning, his already aching back would trouble him even more. He was frankly too big for her couch, his feet already dangling over the side. With one hand she was playing with his soft curls, scratching the nape of his neck, and trying to grab the remote with the other – without success.

It had to be done. Caretaker softly whispered his name, tracing his jawline in an attempt to wake him up. He wouldn't budge.

“Whumpee”, the name came out as a soft chuckle. “Whumpee, you need to wake up.”

Again, nothing. 

This time she held him by his shoulders and started shaking him gently. Two bleary brown eyes stared up at her, blinking a couple of times. A sleepy groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright. Somehow Caretaker doubted that Whumpee was truly awake.

She stood up and held her hand out to him. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

Loosely, he took her hands and let himself be pulled up, almost immediately resting his head on top of hers. 

“Yes, Master”, he breathed into her hair. 

Caretaker could feel her blood running cold. She froze, waiting for any indication of what happened, any sign that Whumpee wasn’t feeling well. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t tense up or start shaking. He didn’t fall on his knees or stare at her in adoration and obedience or wait for her order. In fact, he didn’t seem to even realize what he’d said. Instead, he just nuzzled further into her locks, almost falling asleep on his feet. 

Slowly, she took a step backward, his hands still in hers, waiting to see if he’d follow. Whumpee shuffled along, although at a snail’s pace. Caretaker didn’t know whether to bring up what had happened but one look in his half-lidded eyes told her that any attempt at communication would just pass by him. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember how he got to bed in the morning. 

She took him upstairs where –at the sight of his own bed– he staggered forward and flopped down on his messy sheets. Caretaker followed him inside to tuck him in. While she was securing the blanket under his shoulders, Whumpee loosely grabbed one of her hands in his much bigger one and pressed it to his cheek. 

“G’night…”, he murmured into her hand. 

She couldn’t understand what he said after that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

This is very much inspired by this post by @whumpadventureprompts (i couldn't find how you want to be tagged when people use your prompts so i hope this is alright)

[andithewhumper]

New Home (1)

First installment of what I hope is a long series, but who knows. These are characters I have been messing around with for a while so it's nice to finally get something concrete down. This series is partially inspired by @whumpsday 's Kane and Jim series. It is amazing, go read it. My vampire lore is different, I'll eventually post it, but for now have fun with this.

Masterpost

Content: Vampire thralls, kneeling, past referenced abuse, human trafficking, vampire whumper, vampire carewhumper, human whumpee, nonbinary whumpee

Humans were the least of Kairos’ worries. They were there and that was that. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them, they just existed opposite to her. A dolphin isn’t overly concerned with the life of a shark. So when her father called her into his office for an unstated reason she did not expect this. 

There was a rather deplorable looking human trembling on the floor in front of Duke Eldon Orfeo. He stood in front of his desk giving the human not even a glance as he waited for his daughter. Kairos gave her father a weird look as she stepped into the room. It was unlike him to engage with even the humans in his own household except for swiftly disciplining them and sending them on their way. Yet this human, Kairos didn’t recognize, confusing her even more. 

“Father? You called for me?” The Duke nodded at his daughter and then glanced down at the trembling figure on the floor. 

“Yes, I need you to deal with this.” His voice was cold and smooth, commanding ultimate authority. Kairos looked down at the shaking form. She could hear small whimpers coming from the human as they wrapped their arms around themself. 

“And this would be-?”

“The human was a thrall of one of Edward’s intolerable friends who has recently been sentenced by the Council of Lords. It was gifted to Edward, but I see no reason to reward him for associating with such people and so I am giving the human to you.”

Kairos had to admit she was stunned. She very rarely had personal thralls, they were more of a hassle than they were worth. The last time she could recall taking one was when she first moved to France and refused to spend another several decades alone with no one who would speak to her. 

“I appreciate the offer, Father, but wouldn’t Michél appreciate the gift more? He is far more inclined towards personal thralls.”

“Michél agrees that you should be the one who gets the human. He has several already. Besides, this one fits your preferences, does it not?” Kairos looked down at the thrall, who seemed increasingly distressed by the path of the conversation. They were indeed the kind of human she would normally go for, frail and feminine. Their hair fell just below their chin in a mess of brown curls not unlike her youngest brother James. Yet, she was inclined towards women in bars who would readily come home with her under the promise of wine and good company. Few complained that her good company came with the price of their blood. They left with more pleasure than any man could give them and a wound that would heal in a week. She had no need to ever see them again. 

“My preference is normally for less permanent meals, Father. Not for second hand ‘gifts’. Besides, there are plenty of thralls in your household that I drink from. I have no need for another meal.”

“Then use the human as a test subject for your experiments. Do whatever you please with it, but I am assigning it to you.” Her father’s tone was becoming terse and she knew that if she pushed him any longer this would become a significantly more painful exchange for her. She would have to figure out what to do with the human later. For now, she figured it would be wise to get out of her father’s sight. 

“Yes, Father. I’m sure I can find some use for the human. Thank you for deeming me worthy for this gift. I doubt Edward would be mature about this anyway.”

Her father nodded and she felt a small amount of relief that she defused the situation before it became too extreme. She looked down at the human who glanced up at her only to quickly shoot their eyes back to the ground. 

“Come,” she ordered the human, “I have work to do. 

---

Quinn tried to still their shaking. They didn’t understand what was wrong with them. They knew how to behave in the presence of vampires and yet everything their Master taught them escaped from their mind. They had been brought to this house with the expectation of being immediately handed to the vampire their Master had gifted them to and yet they still hadn’t seen him yet. The vampire they knelt in front of was no less terrifying than Master’s friend. They had met Master’s friend before. He was cruel, even crueler than Master was. 

This vampire was tall with dark hair that was short and neat. From the few words they heard him say, they could tell he had a French accent. They wondered if he was going to be their new Master instead of Master’s friend. They knew it was forbidden to want anything, but they hoped he was. 

When the woman walked in Quinn couldn’t hold back their confusion. They risked a glance up at the vampire. She looked dangerous, with long red hair and intense eyes. Quinn wondered who she was. They had seen more vampires in this night alone than in the rest of their life. With every one Quinn could feel their dread getting deeper and deeper into them. 

There was a time, when Master first took them, that Quinn thought about running away. Those forbidden thoughts had been gone from their mind soon after, but they came back with a terrifying realization. They were going to be given to a vampire in a house surrounded by other vampires. Even if they got away from whoever was meant to be their new Master, they would still have to get past all the other vampires in the house. Quinn blinked hard as they realized what they had been thinking about. How dare they think those thoughts, here of all places. This was supposed to be a new start, and yet they were already messing it up by misbehaving. 

When Quinn heard the French vampire say that they would be given to the woman they thought they misheard at first. Did this mean they wouldn’t be going to Master’s friend? Quinn felt a rush of relief run through them. Quinn was ecstatic, anything was better than belonging to Master’s friend, as disobedient as they were for thinking about it. He was horrible, even when Master told him to go easy on Quinn. They started to calm their breathing right up to the point when the woman spoke. 

“I have no need for another meal.” 

Quinn was crushed. The two vampires above them were debating their fate as if it was nothing. The small part of Quinn that was angry about that was squashed down by the part of them that knew this was their purpose. Master had taught them that they existed in this world purely to serve vampires. They knew better than to doubt that, but what these two were doing now was cruel; dangling a better option in front of Quinn like a worm on a hook. 

“Use the human as a test subject for your experiments.” Quinn whimpered at the words and then bit their lip to silence themself. The vampires did not want to hear their pain. They were supposed to take this torment silently so as to not inconvenience their Master. Quinn cursed themself. Of course the woman didn’t want them as her thrall, they couldn’t even stay quiet when they weren’t in pain. How could she expect them to stay quiet when they were being disciplined or even when she wanted to feed? Quinn trembled at the thought of making any noise when their new Master fed. They would certainly be punished severely if that ever happened. 

They heard the woman agree to taking them and Quinn wondered if they should feel relieved. Of course they didn’t want to belong to Master’s friend, but this woman did not want them. What if they gave them to him  when they got bored or irritated with Quinn’s bad behavior. They tried so hard, but Quinn always misbehaved. Master told them all the time that if they ever wanted to be free of punishment they had to be more obedient, but Quinn was dumb and they messed up all the time. 

They tried another glance up at the vampire, but this time they were caught. Quinn quickly looked back down at the ground. They held back a whimper. Their new Master would surely punish them for this disrespect. Master-no their old Master now-would have slapped Quinn across the face if they ever dared to look at him without being told. But their new Master ignored the disrespect and simply gave them the order to follow. Quinn, confused but not willing to mess up twice in a row by ignoring the vampire’s commands, stood and quickly followed after their new Master. 

---

Kairos led the shaking human to her room. She needed to get some work done before she could even speak to the thrall and despite their trembling they seemed well-behaved enough to sit quietly while she worked. She walked through the hallways and noticed the human glancing around at the artwork. She was glad the human was not totally petrified that they had lost all ability to think. That would be irritating for her to deal with. She opened the door to her room and gestured for the thrall to go in. The human walked past her slowly, obviously still quite nervous. Kairos shut the door and caught a glimpse of the human finching at the sound of the lock. 

“Sit and be quiet,” she said gesturing to a chaise next to the bed, “I have work I need to get done before I discuss some things with you.” 

The human nodded quickly, but didn’t say anything. Kairos, usually unbothered by thralls giving her no response-it was typical of any of her father’s thralls to ignore her completely-felt the need to correct this. 

“When I give you an order I expect a response, understand?”

The thrall shook where they stood and Kairos noticed the human looked about ready to fall over, but they forced the words out of their mouth. 

“Y-yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.” 

Kairos gave them an affirmative nod and turned to her desk in order to continue her work. 

After about an hour of writing she turned around to see the thrall, staring at the floor in front of them. They sat with perfect posture on the chaise, with their back straight and their hands in their lap. So the thrall at least knew how to follow a simple order. That was good to know. Kairos had interacted with many thralls that seemed to think they could ignore or disregard her orders simply because they answered to her father first. She had almost forgotten what it was like to actually be obeyed without question. She had to admit, it felt nice. 

---

Next

If you wanna be on the tag list just lmk :)

[whumplr-reader]

Damn, @distinctlywhumpthing can write. (Can I be added to the taglist?)

(I had a plan to do a whole reaction post when you got the next chapter out, but rl intervened.) I just was to say I *adore* this series and the fresh twists you're able to put on the stock tropes that, let's face it, I would love even without them.

I'm very intrigued by the discussion AIden has with Delia, as what they seem to be saying does not jive with my reading of the text so far, so clearly I'm misinterpreting, and I really want to know what!

And of course the suspense for the indigo plan is on point.

Unintentional 26

Previous—Masterlist— Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Past surgical/medical whump alluded to, hospital setting. OCD, panic attack, Caretaker struggling. Impeding raid/threat of Whumpee's (re)capture. As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

Leo’s head ached, exhaustion weighing him down and diluting his expressions so that every time he tried to give Aiden a reassuring smile, the kid just looked more worried. Leo was bone tired. They both were. Delia had only told them one result of the MRI scan: there was no tracker, not even one that had been fried by the machine. So, in that respect, they were in the clear. She’d go over the rest later. Aiden was already shaking without an onslaught of information, tremors radiating through him, his gaze weary and unfocused. 

For the better part of the last hour, Leo had been sitting in one of the unforgiving chairs beside the bed, trying to coax Aiden to relax. Reassuring him everything was alright, asking if he needed anything else, blundering around just shy of making the outright suggestion. Hell, at this point, Leo was ready to admit it was just so that he could rest himself without feeling guilty. Fifteen minutes and he’d feel better. They both would. 

The day before, he’d torn up a whole first floor of scratched laminate and demoed a fireplace. His partner had noticed the push and asked him if everything was alright. He’d said he wasn’t sure, which now felt laughable. And like it had happened a full week ago. 

Leo had finally given in and let his eyes fall closed for a moment when the announcement came over the PA. Code Indigo. All floors. Code Indigo. Aiden clapped his free hand over his ear. 

“Code Indigo?” Leo repeated, fresh adrenaline pulling him to his feet. He tightened his grip on Aiden’s hand. “But you said—”

“It’s rare but it does happen,” Delia said, typing furiously into her phone without looking up. 

Leo wanted to knock it out of her hands. They needed her right now. Aiden's shoulders had crept up to his ears and his grip on Leo’s fingers was shaky. 

“But how did they find out? You don’t think—”

Delia finally put her phone back into her pocket and met his eyes. “They don’t know anything about him. It’s just a random raid.” 

A strangled sound came from Aiden and he pulled his hand out of Leo’s. He would have slipped out of the bed too but Delia was faster. 

“Easy, it’s going to be alright. We’re going to make a plan.” 

Aiden turned to Leo, eyes wide and shining with tears. His bottom lip trembled along with the rest of him. 

This poor kid had trusted him and now, in bringing him here to save his life, Leo might have just done the opposite. What if it would have been better to just let Aiden die on his own terms? Leo would never forgive himself.

He tried to swallow some of the panic and guilt climbing hand over fist up his throat. “Can’t we just make a run for the car?” 

His sister shook her head. “They cover the exits and parking lots before they even make the announcement. That’s the fastest way to get caught.”

Aiden covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. “Nnn-no…no…no…nnno.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Nnn—please—” He caught Leo’s sleeves in his shaking fists. “Please…mmm’I….can’t….mmm…I….can’t….mmm…” He pinched his eyes closed, freeing some tears, and swallowed in a way that made Leo want to ask if his throat was hurting. When he opened his eyes again, they shone with tears. “Please.”

Fuck, as if Leo didn’t feel guilty enough already. “I’m right here. I won’t leave your side, I promise. We’re going to get through this. Delia’s going to help us and—”

Aiden turned to her instead, releasing Leo. Apparently, reassurance was not what he was after.  “Mmm…please…mmm…I…can’t…mmm…can’t…mmm…” He gave up trying to find the word and held up his arm, hooking his index finger under the bandage to show her the rectangular scar on his wrist.

“Yes, I saw.” She lowered his hand for him, smoothing back the edge of the bandage. “Aiden, running away from your previous master means they’ll have your picture on the list of Defectors.” 

Previous master. Meaning he was the current one. Leo’s stomach churned. “Delia, if they have his picture—”

“Nnno,” Aiden interrupted. He raised his arm again. “Nnn-not…mmm’me.”

Delia narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t do this to yourself…when you ran away?” 

He shook his head vehemently, eyes darting to search Leo’s face for a moment. 

“You’re not saying—I didn’t think—” Delia tented her fingers around her eyes, like blinders, as though suddenly everything was too much. She started shaking her head. “You’ve already—they did this to you?” 

Aiden exhaled a sob, nodding. 

Delia swore under her breath. 

“What?” Leo wrung his hands, leaning to try to see Aiden’s face angled away from him. “What does that mean?” 

Delia blinked at him, clearly distracted by whatever revelation had just passed between them. That he was still not privy to. 

“Hello? We’re definitely running out of time.” It was impossible to see what was going on in the hallway with the curtains drawn around this half of the room. In his mind, it was already teeming with police or WRU agents or both. Any minute, they’d burst into the room and take Aiden away. 

“Right. It’s good news…I think.” She kneaded her forehead with her fingertips. “Aiden, I’m hoping this wasn't sanctioned…?” 

He shook his head. 

“How many people knew you were there?” 

He held up one finger. 

“Okay.” She nodded. “And you didn’t escape on your own?” 

Another no. 

Leo leaned his weight from one foot to the other without taking his eyes off the vague location of the door behind the curtains.

“This is good. Sorry but…how much do you remember?” She was keeping her face carefully neutral. 

Aiden didn’t say anything but Leo could see the muscles in his jaw working as he held Delia’s gaze. 

“And from before?”

Tight nod. 

Delia reached for Aiden's hand and he let her take it. “I’m so sorry, Aiden.” 

His face wasn’t quite visible but Leo could tell he was holding his breath.

“We’re going to get you through this and then we can help.” This wasn’t just textbook bedside sympathy, she had that fire behind her eyes and determination in her voice. “It’s really good you told me.”

Leo looked down at his hands, pushing the tip of his thumb into the meat of the other palm. There was a speck of dried blood along the cuticle of his right index finger. Maybe from when Aiden had started bleeding through the bandages earlier, maybe from even earlier and he’d just not washed his hands thoroughly enough. He glanced toward the door again, anxiety twisting in his gut. Maybe he had time to—

“Hey, Leo?” 

Aiden dropped his gaze as soon as Leo looked up. Delia was waiting expectantly.

“Sorry.” He lifted his hand to run through his hair but stopped just shy of making contact and let it fall. 

“You remember the plan we talked about before?”

Aiden was watching him from under his eyelashes. 

He tried to inject a little more confidence into his voice. “Right, yes.”

“Great. Just do everything I told you and you’ll be fine.” Delia patted Aiden on the shoulder before backing away.

“Wait, what?” Leo held up his hands like he could call time out on this whole thing. Seconds ticking away until they were found out. “You’re not staying?”

“I thought that was already clear.” 

Leo shook his head. She couldn’t possibly leave. Leo didn’t know his 

“I have other—” Her gaze flicked to Aiden and back. “Other patients who need me.” 

“What?” 

Aiden shrank back, almost imperceptibly, because he’d raised his voice. Shit. 

“We don’t have time for this.” 

He clenched his shaking fingers into fists but then unclenched his right fist when he remembered the blood on his finger. “Wait, but what do we do if someone comes in? What are we supposed to say?” Leo couldn’t even look at Aiden. Did not want to see just how much this was definitely making everything even worse for him. He rubbed at the speck of blood with his other fingertip but it wouldn’t come off. 

“Leo.”

He met her gaze, switched to trying to scrape off the blood with his fingernail. “What about you? What happens if they catch you? I thought this was a once-in-a-blue-moon thing—wait, Delia, is this a fucking felony?” 

At some point, she must have stopped backing toward the door because now she held out her hand, reaching for him. “Leo, just take a breath—”

He dodged her. “I just—I need a minute.” Aiden looked confused at best and rejected at worst. Leo turned away and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He blinked and was already scrubbing at his fingers, rubbing the soap into his cuticles and under his nails. He wasn’t even counting, just mindlessly washing. 

No, he really needed to not lose his shit right now. 

He couldn’t get stuck in this loop. 

Not. 

Right. 

Now. 

Leo forced his lungs to fill with air, rinsed the soap off. Toweled his hands dry. 

Just one proper hand washing and then he had to go. 

One, two, three, four pumps of soap. 

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—

“Leo…”

He hadn’t even heard the door open.

Delia stilled both of his hands with one of hers. “How long?”

“What?” Leo let her rinse each of his hands under the water. “How long have you not been taking your meds?” She turned off the tap and handed him paper towels. 

He couldn’t meet her gaze, focused on absorbing each errant drop of water. “A couple weeks? I’m fine, I managing it.” 

“I’m sure you were but now it’s caught up with you.” The careful tone his sister used revealed just how overly defensive his had been. She took the soggy paper towels out of his hands and dropped them into the bin. “This is a lot and it will continue to be a lot. You need to take care of yourself if you’re going to help him.” 

Leo flexed his fingers, trying not to inspect them too closely. “Yeah, okay. I know.”

“Come on, I really need to go and you’re going to be fine together. This is going to work.” She led him out and handed him the backpack she’d been forward-thinking enough to pack at his condo. “You know what to do. I’ll let you know when it’s all clear.”

As soon as she left, Leo wondered if he should have said a longer goodbye. Just in case. He had no idea what repercussions she’d face if caught, not that he had any better idea about himself. Aiden was the only one that really mattered and they needed to get going on this plan. 

Aiden was watching him, not quite warily but carefully, as he set the backpack beside him on the bed and started pulling out what they’d need. He ignored the compulsion to keep reflexively checking the door, tried to make his movements efficient but not visibly rushed.

“I’m sorry,” he said at the same time Aiden said, “Sorry.” Aiden huffed and dropped his chin. He was still shaking but had his mouth set in a determined line. Delia must have instilled a little more confidence in him about their plan to hide in plain sight. 

It would work. 

It had to work.  

Leo zipped up the half-empty backpack and dropped it beside the chairs. “Hon, you don’t have anything to apologize for. None of that—my reaction—was your fault.” He ran a hand over his hair, sighing. “When we get home, I can exp—”

“Leo?” 

There was so much care in the way Aiden shaped the air, as though the syllables might crack under too much strain. He kept his timbre soft, hesitant about borrowing sounds he didn’t feel he had any right to but in voicing them finding his own version of ‘Leo’.  

No way he could chalk this utterance up to his own imagination. A part of him still couldn’t believe Aiden had actually said it. He resisted the self-indulgent urge to ask the kid to repeat himself just to hear it again, to underline the significance of the moment. Instead, he cleared the lump in his throat and tried to sound casual. “What is it?”

Aiden didn’t react to the fact that Leo hadn’t managed to hide much of the emotion in his voice. He had pulled the sleeve of Leo’s old hoodie into his lap and was running his thumb over the frayed edge of the sleeve. When he raised his eyes, they were brighter than Leo had ever seen them. “Home?” 

“Yeah, home,” he whispered back, not sure how he was able to even find his voice this time.  

Aiden pulled the hoodie on, settling into it like it was a hug. 

Leo couldn’t believe the old thing was so meaningful but he wasn’t about to argue against anything that made Aiden feel safer. Especially considering the threat they were about to face. He held one of his beanies out, almost dropping it when Aiden bowed his head instead of taking it to let Leo put it on for him. 

He couldn’t quite blink all of the tears out of his eyes in time but Aiden kept his head down anyway, busy gathering the extra length of the sleeves into his fists. 

How could this kid not see how much of a hold he had on Leo already? 

When the door opened just a few minutes later, as they pretended to sleep across the room from each other, Leo was glad Aiden had a piece of home—a piece of him—to hold onto. 

No matter what happened next.

Previous—Masterlist— Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree

[starfields08000]

Hi so.. I've finished all the whump stories im reading right now and I'm looking for stories where whumpee thinks caretaker is Thier new master/ whumper

Send me ur favourites pls (they don't have 2 b ur ocs)!

[justbreakonme]

Guilty as charged.

[yet-another-heathen]

On conditioned whumpees...

Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.

Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.

And that's... not really how conditioning works.

Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.

There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.

You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.

These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.

Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.

But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.

So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.

But those conditioned responses are still there.

There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.

The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. And you feel like you are.

Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.

Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.

Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. And that progress is anything but linear.

You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.

Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.

You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.

These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.

You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.

That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.

[whumplr-reader]

Still really happy with this scene, given how fast I wrote it and how very very little time I spent editing (could still use a few touch ups, I know 😆)

It, uh, probably makes more sense if you've read the 98,606 words leading up to it* and caught some of the clues, but it kinda sorta maybe works as a little bit of a standalone.

* I did arithmetic! (The computer did arithmetic.)

After he helps Roman to bed, Bryce works on his synopsis for Boss and sends it off. She'll read it before she ends her day, and he'll call her in the morning to follow up. He pulls out his bluetooth earbuds (only compatible with his phone, would have saved trouble a few weeks ago if he could use them with a computer) and calls Mal, explaining his seating requirements. She's unusually accommodating, which is unnerving, but the call is quick.

He has chores to do, and one more call to make. He goes into the laundry room, dialing Jean as he walks.

Jean picks up before the second ring. "Bryce? I'm at work," at the hospital, of course. "I only have a few minutes. What's wrong?"

"I just wanted to let you know I probably won't make our raid tomorrow evening. Work thing."

Jean has known Bryce over thirty years. Suspicion etches his voice. "You called just to say you'll miss the raid?"

"Yeah. Have a work thing with the kid I told you about." He picks up a sheet from the floor. Kyle doesn't sort laundry, apparently.

There's silence on the other end for too long, then: "Are you--" Are you calling to say goodbye, he knows Jean cut himself off from saying. This is the fourth time he's called to say goodbye in ten years. He's always made it through the situations that inspired the calls, and never had to fake his death, but one day he won't, and they both know it. Jean tries again. "Don't do anything stupid, man."

He forces a theatrical bravado into his voice as he opens the washer. "You know I don't do stupid things."

"Right…And this work thing, who did you say was involved?"

"The kid I told you about." He's sure he already said that. The fitted sheet goes in next.

"Bryce…Do you remember when you rescued that teenager, what, a decade ago? The one you gave that pep talk to?"

Kyle. "Of course." Where is Jean going with this?

"And do you remember what you called him the first time you told me about him?"

Bryce never uses names or locations when speaking to Jean. So what's he on about? "Sure. I told you about this kid, really a teenager, and I described some of what happened to him, and--"

"Yeah," Jean interrupts. "You told me about a kid, and the next time we spoke, it was all 'the young man' this and 'the teenager' that."

Bryce's breath stops as he lift the detergent. He feels a chill. "What are you getting at?"

"Who was the last person you called 'kid' for more than a day?"

No. No. The detergent falls to the floor. "No. No. That's not…No."

Jean is gentle. He's always had a good bedside manner. "I think so, man. I think they're tied in your mind."

No. But he's been dreaming, and in his mind's eye he sees a glimpse of her at the viewing, before the door is slammed in his face. Forever young and beautiful, and dead, dead, dead.

"I've been dreaming about her," he admits reluctantly.

"About her? Or about the funeral home?"

"The funeral home. Our mother." I don't have a son. Jill didn't have a brother. He sinks to the floor. Standing is too much effort.

"Yeah. I'm not surprised. I think you're developing a real connection to another person for the first time since then."

Bryce chokes back tears. "No. I can't be. The kid doesn't like me, doesn't trust me. And he's smart not to."

"You wouldn't hurt him." The confidence in Jean's voice is unnerving. "I haven't heard you talk about another person like this since Jill died, and I know you've been through a lot, but you won't hurt him. He's wrong not to trust you."

"I didn't say he was right not to trust me, I said he was smart not to trust me." And there's the tears now, audible in his words. "And he is. It's the right move on his part."

"And it's killing you that he doesn't, right move or not."

And now the tears are coming down his face and he's fighting back actual sobs. Fuck, he hasn't cried like this since…Well. "My emotions are not the point, not-bro. They haven't mattered in years." He takes a deep breath, tries to get his breathing under control. It's really hard. He has new respect for Roman's self-control.

"Bryce, bro, they matter. If nothing else, they matter to me."

Almost under control. He can talk now, at least. "I love you, not-brother, but they don't matter. I'm accomplishing things, I'm helping people, and I've been dead inside since…Since."

"I don't believe that." Bryce just cries into the phone in response. "I'm here for you," Jean continues.

A laugh breaks through his sobs. "This is really not an ideal time for me to have emotional breakthrough, you know that?"

"Bryce, you called me to fucking say goodbye. I'd say now's the only time for this to happen."

And now he's laughing, semi-hysterically. "I love you man. You're the best brother-in-law I never got."

"You have me. I have you. You know that."

Bryce leans his head against the side of the washer, cool metal against his face bringing a sharpness to the world. His laughter subsides. "I know, man."

There's an alarm coming through the phone. "Take care of yourself, bro. Yourself and your new kid brother." And there's a shout, "Doctor--" and the call ends.

Bryce leans against the washer. He'll get up in a few minutes, pack for the worst-case scenario, fix dinner, wake Roman, say hi to Kyle when he arrives (for the last time?). He'll do all that in a few minutes.

He just needs a few minutes.

Previous

Roman sleeps, uneasily for a while. The nightmares are getting worse... they wake him up this time. He doesn't wake screaming, but he does wake scared in a cold sweat, dreading dinner tomorrow even more than he had.

It takes him a moment to be aware of what's happening in the house around him... he can hear Bryce talking to someone... but he only hears Bryce, not the other person. A phone call..?

"You know I don't do stupid things."

Roman wonders loosely who Bryce is talking to...

"The kid I told you about."

Is that... him..? Not necessarily, but Bryce does call him kid sometimes— even though he's not a kid. He's 22 years old.

"Of course. .......... Sure. I told you about this kid, really a teenager, and I described some of what happened to him, and--"

Oh, so maybe not him then. Some teenager. Who, though..? And when has Bryce been around them..? He's been at the house most of the time. Unless whoever this is has something to do with work, maybe.

The quality of Bryce's voice changes... "What are you getting at?" There's a soft thud as Roman hears something fall into the floor. "No. No. That's not…No. .......... I've been dreaming about her."

Her? That's not the same person he's been taking about. Bryce had said him before. Who is he dreaming about..? Is that what Bryce's nightmares have been..?

"The funeral home. Our mother."

A sister..? Is that who Bryce has been dreaming about..? Someone who's passed away? Or is this statement less related to the bit before than it sounds? Is Bryce just talking to a brother or sister right now..?

"No. I can't be. The kid doesn't like me, doesn't trust me. And he's smart not to."

So maybe Bryce is referring to Roman when he says 'the kid'... Those are almost the exact same words Bryce keeps saying every time he tells Roman something he knows Roman isn't going to believe. And Roman feels justified in it now. He's smart not to.

"I didn't say he was right not to trust me, I said he was smart not to trust me." Is... is Bryce crying..? "And he is. It's the right move on his part."

Smart not to trust... but not right not to trust... If Bryce is talking about Roman, does... does that mean everything he's told Roman is true..? Bryce must think Roman is asleep right now. Why keep lying if Roman can't hear..?

Bryce is definitely crying as he continues. "My emotions are not the point, not-bro. They haven't mattered in years."

Roman could tell that Bryce had been concealing emotions— no one is really as cold as Bryce usually is— but Roman just thought it was because he's a captive. Not because Bryce really thinks his emotions don't matter.

And he just said not-bro. Is he... talking to a man, then? Someone... not a brother..? But that's a really weird thing to say.

"I love you, not-brother, but they don't matter. I'm accomplishing things, I'm helping people, and I've been dead inside since…Since."

Dead inside since what..? And Bryce laughs— still crying— but laughing. It's a bit unnerving to hear.

"This is really not an ideal time for me to have emotional breakthrough, you know that?" The laughter becomes more prominent. "I love you man. You're the best brother-in-law I never got."

And Roman's thoughts go back to the girl Bryce briefly mentioned on the call. A sister? A sister who died before she was able to marry her fiance? That would make 'not-brother' make a little more sense— although it's still weird.

The laughter dies down... "I know, man." And then the call must be over, because Bryce doesn't continue the conversation.

Roman has a hard time wrapping his mind around the possibility that Bryce has been telling him the truth this whole time. There's an odd mix of emotions that go with his thoughts. Shame at his instant dismissal of everything Bryce has said. Anger at himself for that pointless escape attempt that just ended in more unnecessary pain. Hope at the possibility that he could still leave this place alive.

But he stops himself. He doesn't know if Bryce was talking about him. It could have been some teenager. Roman still doesn't trust Bryce, but... maybe he should consider things a little more carefully before saying he absolutely doesn't trust Bryce...

He did sort of trust Bryce in the beginning... just a little. But then everything came apart when he realized all the things that have happened in this house... But... is that really so surprising..? Knowing what Bryce does, it shouldn't be. And anyone who has to deal with that on a regular basis is bound to grow somewhat callous, right..? Does Bryce even have any idea why things went downhill so quickly..?

Roman has to push his thoughts aside. He can't handle all of this new information right now. He just wants to go back to sleep. But he can't. He can try, though.

[pigeonwhumps]

Knife to the throat

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 4: knife to the throat

@febuwhump

Note: For avoidance of confusion over pronouns, Blue is genderfluid, and is using he/him pronouns in this piece. This takes place a couple of weeks after Flinching.

Blue accidentally triggers Morgan's conditioning, with Rhian as the target.

771 words

CWs: dehumanisation, self-dehumanisation, conditioned whumpee, living weapon whumpee, held at knifepoint, bad caretaker (one of them), caretaker new whumper, gun

"Morgan, put the knife down," says Rhian softly, hand in the air, trying to avoid cutting their throat on the sharp knife held against it.

She silently curses Blue. She and Morgan had been talking, and then Blue had barged in, not even looking at Morgan, and said something to Rhian. Rhian's not sure what it was now, it's not important, but some part of it triggered Morgan.

And now Rhian has a knife at their throat and Blue, the idiot, is pointing his gun at Morgan. As if any of this is Morgan's fault.

"Blue, put the gun down, please."

"Not while the weapon's an active threat."

Rhian closes her eyes, praying for patience. "Morgan. Please, put the weapon down. It's only Rhian, I'm not going to hurt you."

Morgan's arm trembles slightly but it doesn't waver, their gaze blank. They've entirely been taken over by their conditioning.

Rhian hears the click of Blue's gun. "For the love of god, Blue, don't you fucking dare shoot them."

"It's a tranquilliser. And I won't let you get knifed in the throat."

Well, at least Morgan won't die if he shoots. She decides to try a different method.

"Sweetheart. It's Rhian. There's no danger, nothing to attack. I don't want you to attack. Let go, sweetheart." Morgan trembles harder, tears welling. Clearly, no-one's tested their conditioning by being kind before. But it's not working enough. Rhian swallows. There must be a phrase to stop it. What would they say in the military? What did the guards used to say, in the mandatory exercise yard at the re-education centre, during their escape, every time they wanted something to stop?

Stand down. Stand down, student 7583, or I'll shoot. Shoot to kill, no prisoners.

Rhian breathes out shakily and hardens her tone, imitating the guards easily after all the practice she's had.

"Stand down. Morgan, stand down." That doesn't work. She grimaces. "MD-264N, stand down."

Morgan drops the knife immediately, hand swinging down, and Rhian steps forward, shielding them from Blue. "I'm going to touch you, Morgan, don't panic." She takes another step forward, and once Morgan's within arm's reach she reaches out, pulling them into a tight hug. "Come back to me, sweetheart, come on. You're Morgan, remember?" Morgan shudders. "That's it. You're doing it. Come on, sweetheart, I've got you. You're doing so well."

Morgan gasps, clutching Rhian's upper arms tightly as their knees start to buckle. "This weapon is– it is–"

"Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe."

Morgan takes a deep breath, copying Rhian. "This weapon is malfunctioning. Its eyes are leaking and its heart rate is still increasing and–"

"Shh. It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. That's okay, I'm not mad, not gonna correct you. Just breathe, concentrate on calming down. Blue messed up, you did nothing wrong, it's okay. It's okay to cry, sweetheart. You're not leaking, you're crying, and that's okay."

Morgan looks helplessly at Rhian for a second and then throws themself forward, burying their head in her chest, shaking with sobs. Rhian's breath catches at the look in their eyes, the speed at which they threw themself at her for comfort.

"Hey sweetheart."

"I, it is sorry, it apologises, this weapon injured you and it is displaying aberrant behaviour, it is so sorry, it–"

"Shh, you're okay. The cut doesn't hurt anymore, it's not even bleeding. Cry all you like, let it out. Yeah? You're okay, you're safe."

They clutch Morgan tightly, hearing Blue's footsteps finally fade down the corridor. Morgan's so distressed, Blue was so quick to act that Rhian suspects he's nowhere near trusting them yet, and Rhian herself is still shaken. It's the first time they've really appreciated that their friend was an actual weapon, the first time since Morgan woke that they've thought that way about them. If someone ordered Morgan to, even by accident, they could do a hell of a lot of damage.

Rhian doesn't believe they ever would of their own free will. They were wavering even with the conditioning today. But still. It's a hell of a lot of training (torture) to put someone through, to make them react like that to a few words. She didn't realise it was so thorough. She didn't realise they were so dangerous. Calling themself I, if only for a moment, was progress, but they're still conditioned, still so easy to trigger.

Still so damn small, as well.

And now that same person is soaking her t-shirt with sobs, clutching her like she'll disappear if they don't.

"You're gonna be okay, sweetheart. You're going to be okay."

They can only hope that it's true.

[defire]

Phases of breaking a defiant whumpee

Physically fighting every chance they get even if it's hopeless, watching themselves fail over and over and struggling to keep up hope

If whumper gives them an order, "you're gonna have to ask nicely, whumper." *Cue punishment*

Starts to just block instead of attacking back, knowing it's useless to really try. Maybe blocking is pointless. One last attempt to prove they have some power.

Malicious compliance

"Take off your jacket, whumpee." Whumper brandishes a whip. "Oh sure, and I guess I'll take off the rest of my clothes while I'm at it, you pervert."

That fire in their eyes when they're given an order, darkening to smoldering anger

Fake obedience becomes real obedience because... Whumpee's beginning to think they'll never escape

That moment when the rage at being forced to comply turns into this dead silent frozen state. They won't interact. Not even if there's a caretaker there.

Rageful tears as they do exactly what whumper wants

When they're finally rescued, that charismatic spark of boldness has been crushed down to the darkness of someone who's seen too much.

Their defiance might take new forms after this. Sarcasm? Passive aggression? Outright yelling instead of just a simple "no"? Overcompensating?