#whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper

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Shattered #11 - One Small Step

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CW: whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper, vampire caretaker, reference to vampire whumper, previous abuse torture & captivity, bloodbag whumpee, recovery & rescue, mention of death, paranoia, drugs/medication, medical examination, loss of speech, loss of autonomy, disability/immobility, broken bones (please let me know if I've missed any!)

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Declan doesn’t remember eating his last few meals. He doesn’t remember much of the past few days at all. It’s all a blur; flashes of movement, dull throbs of pain, voices murmuring through the fog. But the meals must have happened. The tray always comes and goes like clockwork: like the sun rising and setting, like the door creaking open and closed.

It’s always the human - Lucas. Thankfully.

Declan drifts in and out during those visits, but there are moments when he surfaces just long enough to see him. Lucas, perched on the edge of the bed, voice soft and steady. As if he’s afraid to startle a wild animal. While he coaxes spoonful's of food past cracked lips, he talks to Declan. Not at him, not down to him - but to him. Man to man. Even if Declan can’t talk back. Even when he’s away with the fairies.

It’s one of the only things that still makes him feel like a person, and not just a body rotting in a bed.

Lucas never rushes him. He doesn’t flinch when Declan chokes, nor sigh when food dribbles down his chin. He just wipes it away with care, not pity - trying to return a small piece of the dignity the world stole from him.

Declan hasn’t seen much of his new master lately. Not that he wants to. August has become more shadow than vampire - slipping in and out of the room, barely there, never lingering. The doctor (or whatever the hell the bloodsucker pretends to be) only skulks in once a day at best now. Always at odd hours, when the light outside is waning.

He moves with faux concern and hollow pity that boils Declan’s blood. Declan doesn’t need or want August’s pity. He needs humanity. Pity does nothing for him now but remind him how far he’s fallen.

The vampire is eerily quiet during his visits. He doesn’t quite meet Declan’s eyes the way he used to. He goes about his business in that maddeningly clinical silence: adjusting IV lines, checking vitals, swapping out fluid bags to keep Declan from crashing, tweaking the pain meds that dull the edge but never truly take it away.

There’s always this careful composure about him, like he’s trying to be harmless. Maybe the guilt is finally eating August alive. As it should. He thinks a downcast gaze and soft voice will make up for what he is.

It won’t. Nothing could ever make up for what August is putting Declan through.

Declan’s ears prick at the bedroom door groaning open, followed by the jarring squeak of patent leather shoes. His stomach knots so sharply it nearly makes him double over the side of the bed and vomit. Every muscle braces without his permission. Before his eyes even dart to the door, he already knows who is there… or what is there. The chill in the air always slips in with it. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Declan. I hope I haven’t woken you?” 

Oh, he’s sorry. Of course he is. Always so sorry, always so gentle. Declan half wishes August would hurry up and get it over with. Drop the act, stop dancing around, and sink his fangs into Declan’s throat. That would be mercy. Not this cruel charade of safety and freedom they keep peddling. At least then, Declan would know his place, and the rules he’d be bound to obey. Afterall, he knows how to be a good little blood bag. Vince made sure of that.

The leech comes closer, too close for comfort. He drags the chair out from its place at the window and settles by Declan’s bedside. Declan weakly jerks sideways in the bed, every movement igniting pain as he forces his wasted frame as far as the mattress will allow. 

Declan watches, wide-eyed and unblinking. He tracks any and every miniscule movement, from the twitch of a finger to the flare of a nostril. His heart slams against his ribs hard enough to hurt. This is the most attention he has had from the monster in days. So why now? What does August want from him now?

“How are you feeling? Are - Are you comfortable? You seem a little more alert today,” August notes, those beady-red eyes sweeping over him. “That’s good. That’s positive! You’re making steady progress.”

Declan doesn’t blink, doesn’t dare breathe. He’s trapped in the cold grip of fear. Fight is a far away thought. Flight? Impossible. So he freezes. Muscles locked, breath caught. Goggle-eyed and pupils blown to the size of the moon.

August sinks in his seat, fingers raking through his hair as a worn sigh escapes. His gaze lingers on Declan, something like concern flickering in his eyes, but Declan doesn’t believe it. Not even for a fraction of a second. He can’t feel it, and he sure as hell can’t trust it.

“I suppose it’s best if I just get on with it? ‘Rip the band-aid off,’ as Lucas says…”, August muses, rubbing the back of his neck.

Finally.

Relief floods Declan, but then devastation hits him just as fast. This is it. What Declan has been dreading and yet exactly what he’s been waiting for, since the second he was revived. August is going to drink him down to the marrow, wring him dry like a rag. Finish what Vince started. He’s not the human Lucas led him to believe he could be again, but the prey he was always meant to be. He squeezes his bloodshot eyes shut, tears pressing free and rolling down his gaunt cheeks. 

Declan knew it was all a matter of time, the truth would come out sooner or later. At least he can say he never fell for their lies or bought into their make-believe world. How could he? In what world would a vampire have business nursing food back from the dead? It was never out of altruism or empathy. It was always for greed and sustenance. 

His arm - the twig-like arm with cannulas still sticking out - viciously trembles as he lifts it, offering it outstretched to August. God help him, he can’t stop the tears spilling, hot and fast. But isn’t this exactly what he’s been asking for? For the vampire to make this make sense? To use Declan as he was always meant to be used? 

No. He’s never wanted any of this. All he’s ever hoped for, begged for, clung to - was survival. Declan isn’t offering his blood out of the goodness of his heart or out of freedom of choice…it’s surrender. It’s all he can do to accept the fate he can’t outrun. If only they had left him for dead. Let mother nature do her work. They didn’t save him, no matter how tightly they cling to that lie. They snatched Declan from the peace of a grave and forced his soul back into the cage of his broken body. 

Declan holds his breath hostage, bracing for the all too-familiar pain of the bite. The pierce of razor-sharp fangs, the dizzying sensation of blood whooshing from his veins, the rush of weakness that comes with it. His body tenses, every nerve wound tight as a wire. When fingers brush his arm, Declan jumps, a choked cry slipping free before he can gulp it down. 

But…there’s no bite. If anything, August’s touch is hesitant and featherlight.

Declan opens his eyes, brows twitched in confusion and blinking through the burn of tears. August isn’t pouncing on him with hunger, tearing him apart like a wild animal. He’s gently guiding Declan’s arm away, and back down. The vampire is so careful, like Declan’s made of glass and with one wrong move, will splinter in his palms.

None of this makes a lick of sense. It’s a nightmare Declan can’t wake up from.

“No-” the vampire’s voice cracks, feigning hurt, “Please don’t. Never that, Declan. I swear, I’ll never ask that of you. Not now, not ever. I’ll say it a thousand times more. Ten thousand times more. For forever. If that’s what you need.”

Declan’s brain is going to implode. It can’t make sense of this insanity. A vampire turning down blood? A lion sparing a zebra? The way August looks at Declan like he’s a small, helpless animal, but not prey snared in a trap?  It should be a relief. It should be comforting. But all Declan feels is deep confusion and disorientation, like the floor’s been pulled out from underneath him. 

He wants to believe it. God, some fractured part of Declan aches to believe August. It would be every prayer answered at once. He can’t. The damage runs far too deep, and the pain is all he has left to rely on. In his gut, a voice screams at him; don’t you dare fall in its trap.

“I - I was only going to ask if I could assess your range of motion today. Only if you’re okay with that, Declan. Just a few simple tests to see how your body’s healing.”

Declan frowns, his face etched with deep suspicion. ‘Assess’? ‘Test’? Like he’s some guinea pig in August’s mad experiment? 

“I’d like to determine where we should begin with your physical rehabilitation,” August clarifies. “What your body can handle, what it’s forgotten, what it can relearn. It will let us see where we need to work on building you back up.”

Ah. Of course. It all falls into place. Build him back up to break him back down again. That’s been the vampire’s motive all along.  It’s no fun breaking something that’s already broken, is it? No-one wants to play with broken toys. Declan remembers Vince telling him that terror sweetened his blood. Adrenaline made it somehow richer. It clicks. This leech only wants to bring the light back to his eyes, so he can watch as he snuffs it out all over again. As if Declan hasn’t endured enough cruelty for a million lifetimes. 

“I’m sure you don’t want to stay bedridden forever.”

No. You don’t want me to stay bedridden. Declan’s no fool, he can read between the lines. August wants Declan to be effortless. He doesn’t want the burden and mess that comes along as part of the deal with his new bloodbag. If Declan gets back on his feet, it will be a breeze from there on out. No complications and no need to pretend to ‘care’. Just a supply to feed from and nothing more - nothing for August to worry about beyond the next meal.

“This will help. We can help. We’ll take it slow, gentle, but we will get you back on your feet,”  August insists, as if willing the words to be true. 

A bitter laugh threatens to rise in Declan’s chest. The idea that August wants to help is so damn laughable it makes his insides twist. None of this is for Declan - it’s all for August’s own convenience. It’s manipulation wrapped in the promise of freedom.

But still... what if? 

The desire to move itches beneath Declan’s skin. He could be more than this shell lying in a bed, idly watching the world pass him by and waiting to be used and abused. What if there’s a chance he could regain his strength? Stand? Walk again? 

Declan nods his approval and August’s face lights up. Good. Let August think his plan is working, and the promise of healing is enough to win him over. Declan will get steadier and stronger, until the trembling stops and the fog lifts. Not because the leech wants him functional, not because he was told to, but because he needs to. Declan will be the one to drag himself out of this pit and no one else. 

He’ll fight his way back, not for August - but for his mum, his dad, Lacey, and finally, for himself.

August rises, knees cracking as he stands. “I’ll need to move the blanket. Is that alright?” he asks, already lowering his hands to pluck it away but waiting for an answer. Declan performs an uncertain nod, even as his skin breaks out in hives. There’s nothing that can prepare him for this vulnerability - to leave himself exposed to the vampire. This blanket has been his one line of defence, albeit a futile barrier between them. And now it’s being whisked from his hands.

August peels the blanket away, exposing Declan’s thin and trembling body to the cold air. Both of them gawk down at his body in horror. It’s a roadmap of all he’s survived. Bruises in every shade that don’t want to fade. Joints swollen and stiff, muscles withered away from disuse. Deep, jagged scars slashed all over. Skin shriveled over bone.

He sees it in August’s face. The moment of pause. The way his jaw tightens. Declan doesn’t need a mirror - he can see the damage written in the vampire’s unease.

“Alright,” August says after an unsteady breath. “We’ll begin small, okay? I’m going to ask you to lift your arms, one at a time.”

Declan’s mind is already spiraling, trepidation creeping in. He can’t help the way his body recoils when the vampire leans the slightest bit closer. Every instinct screams at him to pull away. Where there’s a vampire, there’s always pain. When August reaches out to touch his arm again, that instinct overpowers every ounce of his will. Declan lurches back, flinching like he’s been struck. 

“Hey, hey-” August gasps, pausing mid-reach to hold his hands up surrender style, “I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to startle you. I can… I can bring Lucas in, if it would help? Would that help you feel more at ease?”

Declan doesn’t want to admit how much the thought of seeing Lucas brings him comfort. For all he knows, Lucas is in on this cruel facade, or at the very least - deep under the vampire’s enthrallment. But it does comfort Declan. More than anything. More than these gentle touches and soft voices, all the apologies and promises he knows August has no plan to keep. Lucas brings the humanity and compassion to the table. He is the only one who could ever begin to understand Declan in ways August never will.

Declan nods ‘yes’, and this time eagerly. 

"Okay. Give me one moment”.  August shuffles to the door but not without casting a regretful glance back at Declan. A few hushed words exchange outside, then Lucas is there with him. And suddenly the room is warm again. Declan can breathe again. As little as he can afford to lend his trust, he trusts that Lucas will protect him. 

Lucas comes and perches on the edge of Declan’s bed, as he usually does. He pats Declan reassuringly on the shoulder, and it’s not lost on him how he doesn’t jump out of his skin at the slightest touch. Not with Lucas. Being this close to him doesn’t feel as suffocating as it does with the vampire. 

“It’s alright, mate. I’m here. You’re safe and sound. Promise”, Lucas vows.

Mate. Is Declan really that desperate for connection that his heart flutters at that word alone? And from a stranger? Despair and isolation is all he has known for a decade. Is it so terribly wrong to want someone to rely on? To believe that someone might be there to catch him when he falls, or as it seems, pick him up from where he’s fallen? 

August crouches slightly, bringing himself level with the bed. “Are you ready to start?”. Declan swallows hard, but nods his permission. “Let’s start with your right arm. Just see where you can raise it to. I’ll help you, but don’t push past any pain or discomfort, okay? Let me know if or when it hurts”. He offers a hand, palm up, open and waiting. Declan doesn’t take it. It just hangs between them. He glares at the vampire’s palm like it will burn him. Instinctively, he edges closer to Lucas, creating more distance between himself and August.

Lucas watches their silent standoff. “Declan? Declan? Do you want to hold my hand?”. He opens his hand, resting it gently on the bed between them. “Only if it helps,” he says, and then adds, with a lopsided cheeky smile, “Mine’s warm. Bit of a novelty, I reckon.”

And then - just barely - Declan’s lips twitch. A small, worn-out smile tugs at the corners. He lets out the smallest breath of a laugh, but it’s mostly just air and exhaustion. He thinks of the touch he’s grown used to; so cold and cruel. Those vicious words and callous hands that have been hellbent on melting his mind and breaking his will.

Slowly, Declan’s fingers unfurl. When his hand finally makes contact with Lucas’s, the world around him seems to pause. This is what he’s been craving. Breath and life, heart and soul. Lucas’s hands are warm - like touch should be. Not ice-cold like the vampire’s when they snatch him by the arm, or squeeze his throat. Declan’s eyes flutter closed, trying to hold onto this feeling. His fingers weakly grip Lucas’s hand, though he can’t make any words form, or voice the desperate longing in his chest. But it doesn’t matter. He knows Lucas doesn’t need him to speak. Lucas understands. It feels like a lifeline.

“You’ve got this. I’ve got you. It’s all gonna be okay,” Lucas reassures, “and please - trust me when I say you can trust August. We’re on your side, both of us are. ”

Now that can’t be true. Lucas can’t be on his side and August’s side at the same time. He’s either with him, or against him. Humans or vampires. There’s no inbetween, there can’t be.  If Lucas were truly on Declan’s side, he would have helped him escape by now. He’d be home, nursed in the comfort of his own bed, with his loved ones by his bedside and not this parasite. The dam breaks, the doubt seeps back in. His fingers twitch loose in Lucas’ hand. Not quite letting go, but not gripping for dear life anymore.

"Whenever you’re ready, Declan. Try to lift your arm slowly now, straight up towards the ceiling, as far as feels comfortable”, August instructs.

Declan grits his teeth and tries. It feels like dragging dead weight. His shoulder aches in protest, muscles fluttering and resisting the motion. The joint feels stiff and foreign. Through a surge of determination, he stretches his arm overhead, even as it trembles from the strain.

"Good job! You’re doing well!" August praises, though it lands wrong and comes off patronising. Like he’s talking to a pet. "No sharp pain shooting down your arm? No numbness?"August checks, watching carefully.

Declan shakes his head, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack. Of course it hurts. Everything always hurts. But it's nothing new. Nothing he can't handle. Pain is baseline now.

August lightly supports Declan’s forearm, guiding the movement back down with a steadier hand. “Let’s try again, together this time. Follow my lead.”

They repeat the motion with each arm - once, twice, three times - August feeling for resistance, gauging Declan’s strength and coordination with each attempt.  Sweat beads along Declan’s brow, and his body shakes with effort, but he doesn’t quit. August bends and straightens Declan’s elbows, then moves to his wrists, turning his palms up and down, checking the stiff joints. Finally, he tests each finger, guiding them to flex and extend. 

Next, August shifts his support, one hand braced at Declan’s lower back, while the other slides around his waist to help lift him up in the bed slightly. “Alright, we’re going to sit up now. I’ve got you, you can lean on me for support.”

The weakness in his spine and slowness in his muscles make the simple act of lifting his chest feel like a monumental task, leaving August to compensate and haul him upwards. Sitting upright doesn’t feel nearly as unbearable as it once did. It’s almost... comfortable? No, not comfortable - he’s so used to agony, anything but feels like bliss. But not excruciating, either. His chest expands with air that doesn’t feel quite as suffocating as before. He’s not sure how long he’s been here in his new prison - days, weeks, maybe more? But he knows he’s not the same as when he first arrived. 

“Lean forward for me?”

He doesn’t really wait for Declan’s approval this time; August is already slowly guiding him through the motion. Declan’s back arches unwillingly, pulling at scarred, stiffened muscles. A flash of sharp pain tears through his abdomen, and he gasps out involuntarily.

August stops immediately, easing him back.

Declan feels more fragile with each passing second. Energy drains out of him like water through a sieve. Every inch of movement feels like an assault - joints grinding, muscles shrieking and bones threatening to shatter. His body is a wreck. But at least, it’s a wreck that still moves, even if only just. 

“May I examine your legs now, Declan?”  August asks. 

Declan steels himself, forcing his body to turn and attempting to swing his legs off the side of the bed. Every movement is sluggish, like wading through mud. His arms tremble under the weight of his own body. There’s not an ounce of strength left in them, no leverage to lift or balance himself. He falters, shoulders slumping, and before he can tip sideways, Lucas is there on one side, August on the other. Together, they maneuver him into place. Humiliation flushes Declan’s cheeks. 

“Can you try to bend your knee?” August asks, his voice soft as his hands guide Declan’s leg into a half-bent position. His muscles refuse to cooperate. It takes everything in him to move his leg at all, and when August applies the lightest pressure to coax it further, Declan’s body refuses. His muscles spasm without warning, shaking under the stress of such simple movements. His knees threaten to lock out, his feet twitch weakly. 

“I know,” August murmurs apologetically, sensing his resistance. “I know. I’m so sorry, I know this is a lot. You’re doing really well.”

There’s no trace of impatience or irritation but Declan knows it’s coming. The moment when his body completely fails him, when his weakness shows itself too plainly. And that’s when August will... what? Discard him? Hurt him? He doesn’t know. August hasn’t hurt him… yet. 

Declan’s breath hitches as August continues, carefully working his leg a little further with gentle manipulation. Every push is met with the same resistance, his muscles tremble in frustration, barely yielding. The ache in his thigh intensifies ten-fold.

“Just a little more, Declan. I know it’s hard,” August encourages, moving to the other leg to repeat.

But he doesn’t know. August couldn’t know. How could August ever begin to understand what Declan is going through, what his kind has put Declan through? What does he know about waking up in a body that barely feels like yours, about dragging yourself through the wreckage someone else left you in?

And with each movement, Declan feels bottomless frustration. He wants to push through it all, wants to prove to himself that he’s still capable, still him. But with every bend, every stretch, the body that was once his home feels so distant.

"Okay," August says, adjusting Declan’s posture with a steady hand at his back. "We’re nearly done. Now we’re going to try something a little harder, I’m afraid. I’m going to help you stand - just for a few seconds, to test your balance."

Stand?! Declan’s pulse spikes, panic flashing through him. He desperately shakes his head, eyes wide, pleading ‘please no’. There’s no way. Not yet.  His legs feel like jelly. He’ll collapse like a tonne of bricks. He looks to Lucas in search for an ally, for someone to defend him and put a stop to this madness.

Lucas steps up and moves to stand in front of Declan, gently taking his shaking hands. “I’ve got you. We won’t let you fall. We’ll do it together. Lean into me as much as you need. Even if you can only use your legs a little - I’ve got the rest.”

Slowly, painfully, with Lucas bearing more of his weight than Declan cares to admit, his body shifts. Every muscle screams in agonised protest. Before his feet even touch the floor, both Lucas and August are on him, hands steadying and lifting. It takes all three of them, working in sync, just to get him upright.

His feet find the ground. His knees buckle beneath him. His core shakes, chest heaving. But somehow, impossibly, he’s vertical. Assisted, swaying, gasping for breath…but miraculously, standing up. 

Then it happens. 

The second Declan tries to bear any weight on his right foot, white-hot pain shoots up his leg like a live wire. His body instantly crumples, the ankle twisting uselessly beneath him. A strangled noise; half gasp, half growl - tears from his throat as he collapses. August moves fast, dipping to catch him under his arms before he hits the ground hard.

“Easy, easy! Don’t try to move, Declan!” August frets, voice full of urgency, “Lucas, I think - I think it’s his ankle. Help me lift him back up, slow.”

Declan can barely breathe, each ragged inhale a struggle. The busted ankle pulses and throbs with fresh agony. Failure overwhelms him as Lucas and August haul him back onto the bed. The reality of it sinks in deeper - he’s not where he thought he’d be, not even close. He’s trapped in this broken body. He’ll never be whole again. He’ll never make it home. 

August doesn’t let go immediately. He keeps one steadying hand on Declan’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. That’s why we test these things. Now we know.”

Declan squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to react, not to show how much it feels like he’s drowning. He used to stand without thought. Walk without hesitation. Run like the wind to catch the bus when he was late for his university lectures. He can barely remember what it feels like to be alive in his own body.

August kneels by the bed again, rolling up the loose fabric at Declan’s ankle. His fingers gently press against Declan’s foot, careful not to aggravate any injury. He seems to know exactly what he’s looking for. Feeling for crooked bones, how the scar tissue has thickened in places and how his ankle is slightly tilted. August’s fingers trace the uneven contours of poorly knitted bone. Even through gentle pressure, Declan winces and whimpers. 

His foot is too stiff, the tendons too tight. When August shifts his grip, Declan's ankle fights against him.

"Did you break your ankle quite a while back, Declan?" August questions. Declan doesn’t look at him. Only nods solemnly.

"It's not just weak," August mutters, half to himself, still feeling pressure points. "It’s completely misaligned. This was never treated. It hasn’t healed correctly-”

But Declan doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already gone. Dragged under by the memory that claws him down without warning.

Suddenly, he’s back down in that basement. The stench of mildew and iron infests his nostrils. He hears it again - the wet, splintering crack of bone shattering under his own impossible force, the sound that never really left him. All-consuming pain rips through him. His screams choked off by the cloth stuffed in his mouth, his wrists shredded raw against chains that wouldn’t give, no matter how hard he fought. The terror and the helplessness - it never left him.

Declan blinks hard, dragging himself back to the present. August is glaring into his soul. His brows are drawn tight, and his eyes are wide with a kind of dawning horror? Like pieces are falling into place, and he doesn’t like the shape they’re making.

“...Did…Did you? Declan, was it an accident? Before? Or…Or was it…was it him?”

The word lands hard. It’s not what August said, but how he said it. Spat it out like poison, like he won’t even dare speak his name. It seems so personal? Declan’s never heard that from him before. Contempt. Hatred, even. For Vince? What reason could he possibly have to hate Vince? Do they have history?

A tear slips down Declan’s cheek, the memory won’t stop playing over and over in his head. He quickly dabs his wet cheek with his sleeve.

“H-....H-im,” Declan croaks, his voice strained and Adam's apple fluttering.

August’s expression changes in stages. First, horror. Then it morphs to anger. He turns his face away for a second, breathing through it. When he looks back at Declan, the storm is still there although buried beneath a mask of calm. His posture straightens. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Measured. But there’s a tension in it, a tightness in his throat that he can’t hide. 

“This injury, this kind of misalignment - over time, it ruins your balance, wears on the joint, builds pressure in the soft tissue. That will explain why it’s still so painful. Why it gave out on you. It can be corrected. But not easily. The bone would have to be re-broken, reset, and then bound and supported properly-”

August pauses. Declan’s eyes are already glassy with panic. He flinches at the word re-break. He already doesn’t trust August as far as he could throw him - less than that. He fears every word that leaves the vampire’s mouth, every slight movement could be the next time pain comes disguised as help.

And now August is standing there, calmly suggesting they break his already broken bone. Never. Never in a million years would he let August touch him like that. Let him hurt him under the guise of healing. Let him have that kind of power over him. Not again.

“But we won’t even think about touching it until you say so,” August continues, “And even if you never feel ready for that, that’s okay too. I just want you to know that it is an option. Down the line. Until then, we need to work around it - strengthen everything else. Protect it as best we can."

“I know it’s a lot to take in, mate,”  Lucas chimes in, “And we know how shit-scary this all is for you. But August is right. We’re not gonna force you into anything. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. We’ll find ways to work with what you’ve got for now.”

Declan collapses, mentally and physically spent, the last of his strength seeping away.  He slumps back against the pillows. His entire body hums with exertion and exhaustion, as if he’s run a marathon while barely moving at all. The wreckage of his mind and body just feels neverending.

"We'll figure it out," August says simply. "One small step at a time."

“D- D - o…ne?” Declan rasps, voice scratching his throat on the way out. 

August nods, a small reassuring smile on his face. “All done. Thank you, Declan. Truly. I know how utterly exhausting and testing that must have been for you. But I have a clearer picture to work with now. We can begin working on some exercises together to build your strength and mobility. It’ll take time, but we’ll move at your pace. And we’ll get there.”

---

Declan will work with them. Not because they’ve earnt his trust, and certainly not because he wants to work with them. But because he has no choice. His survival demands and depends on it. He’ll bite down the pain, suffer whatever humiliation and put up with the vampire’s constant prodding and poking. He’ll let them test his limits, and then push him past them - if it means getting him closer to normality.

Because when he can walk, he’ll run - and he’ll never look back.

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[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.

[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'

[distinctlywhumpthing]

What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?

For Aiden 💜💜💜

From this ask game

Ahh! I love this question!

The original thought was this exact scene: whumpee wakes up in the back of a caretaker's work van with no memory of how they got there, surrounded by tools, machinery, etc. and immediately tries to make a run for it because they imagine the worst!

I was eating brunch on a restaurant terrace at the time, and I think I literally saw a work van and was struck with the idea! (:

[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

[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

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[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.

[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.

[pigeonwhumps]

Graveyard horrors

Everything taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

So I intended to write this for Halloween but I didn't finish it in time, but here it is! Ta-da? Enjoy.

Set in the same world as A Death in the Family.

A human flees into a graveyard and unearths something unexpected.

1.6k

CWs: Vampire, minor character deaths, amputation for non-medical purposes, cauterisation, mentioned human experimentation, emotional whump, planned vivisection, mentioned dismemberment, sadistic whumper, fear, discrimination

Whumpee limps across the road, staggering into the nearest gatepost and pulling themself around it. In the distance, getting closer by the second, is the sound of stalking footsteps.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

The moon is the smallest sliver in the sky by now, glinting off the edges of branches and clouds and... and gravestones. Old, crumbling gravestones.

Oh. Oh, of course this is where they've ended up. Where no-one can hear them scream.

Whumpee puts on a burst of speed, almost bringing them up to normal walking pace. Sharp sticks scratch and pebbles embed in the soles of their feet, but they keep going. They run through the churchyard, falling, skinning knees, biting back a scream as they hit their injured leg.

Through the open gateway, the rusted gate dangling off its hinges, creaking in the slight breeze. Off hallowed ground now.

The footsteps are getting closer, low, even. Stalking. Whumpee's breath catches.

"Don't be scared. We just want to play."

Whumpee spins around, backing away as two silhouettes appear in the entrance, tripping over graves as they go, not daring to look away. Unhallowed ground on All Hallow's Eve and the humans are still scarier.

They're always scarier.

A low, hollow, mocking laugh.

"Oh, they're not listening to us. Come on now. We're not going to hurt you."

"Not much, anyway."

Whumpee ignores their words, focusing on trying to scramble away. But their tormenters are getting closer, and Whumpee can't run.

Blood drips down their leg onto the soil. They back up. Stumble. Fall. Grasp the wooden stake. Pull themself up. Uproot the wooden stake. Fall again.

They can actually see the people now. Too close, getting closer.

Whumpee scrambles backwards and hits a wall they didn't remember was there.

Disorientated now, they can only struggle as their arms are grabbed and they're forced to their knees.

"Please. Please, I'm not a monster, my mam's not a monster, please let me go."

"Your mother's a freak. She shouldn't even exist, but the weird scientist and the lightning came and now we have to treat her as a person. You should be back in that grubby little orphanage."

"Why are you doing this?" sobs Whumpee, as Whumper A twists a zip-tie around their wrists and does... something, lifting them up in the air behind their back. They can't move when he lets them go. "I haven't done anything to you, please, just let me go, I won't tell anyone."

Whumper B pulls something long and jagged from a duffle bag. There's something dark and gleeful in her voice when she speaks.

"Don't worry. I don't care that you're a monster. I only care that no-one who actually matters will even notice you're gone. They won't search. That's what we need you for."

"Sadism?"

Whumper A hums. "Wouldn't put it quite like that. I want to see what the child of a monster is made of. Are you more mature or nurture? Sugar and spice and all things nice? Slugs and snails and puppy dogs' tails? Or something else altogether? She's just here for the fun though."

Whumper B shrugs, holding up the... the... oh, hells, that's a bone saw isn't it? Whumpee recognises it from anatomy classes. They whimper.

"What can I say? I enjoy a good dismemberment."

"Please, please you can't even see me here, there's no point, please don't, you can have all my medical records and everything, anything you want, just please don't– aaaaAAHHHHH!"

Their foot. Their foot is– it's– it's–

"There. That'll stop you running. Cauterise that and then we need to get gone. See, we're not stupid. We're not taking you apart in the dark. But this makes it easier. You're already injured, a foot will stop you escaping."

Whumpee screams again as Whumper B steps back to allow Whumper A forward with the heated tong. He presses it against their cut-up foot, a hand over their mouth. No gloating, just efficiency now, and Whumpee realises with sudden lightning-bolt clarity that there's no mercy coming. Ever.

Is it their imagination or is a shadow falling? Is it getting darker in front of them, behind their tormenters, a darkness falling over them? Is their vision going already?

No. No, because Whumper B has frozen, going deadly still. Behind Whumper A is something very tall. Human-shaped, possibly human but hopefully not, part of it is glinting in the moonlight. Two pointed, triangular parts...

Whumper A's head snaps sideways and there's a gurgle as the creature's fangs disappear into his neck. Not human, then.

Whumpee could try to free themself, pick up the stake, stab the vampire into dust. But then what? Their tormenters won't be grateful. They'll still die, and it'll be worse.

Whumper A drops limply to the ground. Whumper B screams.

Her screams are cut off abruptly as the fangs glint again and then dive in. She spasms in the vampire's arms.

Her neck is at an unnatural angle as her body falls limply to the ground.

Whumpee sits, frozen, as the vampire turns its (his? Xer? They don't know and they probably won't ever find out) full attention on them. It cocks its head to one side and strides up to them. They can't even find it within themself to shy away.

Is that the vampire's power or just their cowardice?

The vampire lunges and Whumpee braces themself but it simply shreds the zip-tie. Whumpee collapses to the ground in a heap.

"Thank you," they whisper hoarsely.

"You... summoned me back to life," the vampire says slowly and carefully, as if picking long-forgotten words with the utmost delicacy. "It was your blood, yes?"

"I mean. Probably?" They don't think anyone else has bled in this graveyard tonight.

"Then it is a life for a life, and all debts are settled."

Whumpee shakes their head. They're not. That's not a fair deal. But they don't say that. There's something more important, and they grasp onto it to drag them out of their spiralling shock, even as it makes them blush.

"Clothes."

The vampire looks down at itself in apparent surprise, then proceeds to the taller of the two bodies. It strips him carefully, methodically, pulling them onto itself with all the care of someone stepping into a new designer outfit. Everything except underwear and shoes is taken and added to its new look.

It's all too small, and Whumpee starts to giggle. Everything is suddenly hilarious. Why wouldn't it be? They're in a graveyard on Halloween with a vampire who's killed two people and is wearing one of their clothes, and with a chopped off foot that is too far gone to save. What's not to laugh about in this situation?

"You are in shock. Put this on."

Whumpee shrugs on the black turtleneck, trying not to think about the way it's sodden and crusting in turns.

"Thank you."

Neither of them says anything for a while, Whumpee sitting there, staring at nothing. Their foot. Their poor foot. They pick stones and grit out of the remaining one, trying not to think.

But then the ground shifts, and they realise the vampire is still there too. It's functionally new to the world, possibly, depending on how long it was dead for. Does it have anywhere to go? Maybe she can think about it instead.

"So um. What's your name?"

"Vampire."

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

"I was murdered. I do not think they would have left my house intact."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Vampire shrugs, and Whumpee speaks before they can think about the idea enough to take it back. "Would you... well, I have a spare bedroom. And you have nowhere to go. Absolutely no pressure of course, I didn't mean– forget it."

Vampire cocks its head and stares until Whumpee blushes again and looks away. Was that a bad idea?

"I will come."

The wave of relief that floods through Whumpee at that is strong and unexpected.

"Good. Good."

Vampire stares down at Whumpee.

Whumpee stares back.

Oh. Oh, right.

They should probably stand, huh?

Whumpee braces themself on the nearest gravestone and tries to use it to pull himself up. 'Tries' being the optimum word here, because the stone starts to crumble and Whumpee has no idea how to walk on one foot. They unbalance and their knees wobble, collapsing.

Ow. Fuck.

"You can lean on me."

Whumpee grasps Vampire's side and pulls themself up, staggering against it, allowing it to wrap a firm arm around them.

It could feel like a cage. It doesn't.

"Cheers."

Vampire bows its head in reply, and they start to make their way slowly out of the graveyard, Whumpee leading the route, like they're in some weird slow-motion three-legged race.

Whumpee's nerves are shot. It's only Vampire's strength keeping them up, and not just physically. They want to fall to the ground and stay there, for as long as it takes. Does anyone care? Actually care? What even are they? This might not be a border town any longer but they've spent so long among monsters, are they even human anymore? And does that even matter when people will treat them like something disgusting anyway?

They can think of a hundred, a thousand, rebuttals they'd have to a resident or visitor at Crossways thinking this way, but they don't have the heart to say them to themself.

A tear drops onto their bare foot.

Just one step at a time.

[justbreakonme]

Ooh… the whumpee-thinks-caretaker-is-their-new-whumper but even more mind-fucky.

whump fic where whumpee is being held captive by whumper and continually tries to escape to find where caretaker is being held so they can get out of here together, but as the story progresses it becomes more clear that whumpee is a victim of stockholm syndrome/brainwashing by "caretaker" and is actually being rehabilitated by "whumper" after being rescued, not kidnapped

[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.

[whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot]

Whumpee thinks Caretaker is their new master. Good trope, right? But check this out;

Caretaker doesn't notice.

Because the morning after the day they were rescued, all Whumpee did was get Caretaker a cup of coffee. It was only after then that Whumpee realized new master new rules, and Caretaker might not like coffee at all. So after an hour or so of a panic attack, Whumpee decides to stay put and not do anything.

But Caretaker didn't say anything about that coffee, so Whumpee should probably keep doing that?

And so, every morning, Caretaker gets a cup of coffee, says thank you, that's a nice gesture, and gets done with the day, while Whumpee tries to stay as quiet and unnoticed as possible. Not angering Caretaker is their top priority. Caretaker notices Whumpee is really, really quiet, but hey, they might just like it quiet. They do seem a little scared, but they've been putting off well, so Caretaker is positive that they'll get better with time.

Then Caretaker hears Whumper liked a cup of coffee every morning.

That's.. a strange coincidence.

I hope that's a coincidence.

And they finally try to talk to Whumpee about it, and Whumpee breaks into tears and Caretaker realizes what a mess this is,

[pyrepostings]

We all know the trope of a recently rescued whumpee frustrated and scared at the lack of obvious rules caretaker has for them, and the solution usually being to have caretaker give them 'rules' to follow. I see that and raise a detail I don't often see:

Caretaker asking whumpee to physically write out the rules they had to follow.

Caretaker at this point may already know them. The big ones at least. Whumpee might be prone to reciting them anyway. But this does a few things. It gives the rules a physical manifestation. One that can be crossed out, torn up, burned, or that they can take a red pen to like its some kind of child's essay full of inaccuracies and flaws.

It might help the segway into giving whumpee the new 'rules'. Either with that red pen or on a new sheet of paper, caretaker dictates the new rules or new 'consequences' to the old rules for whumpee to write.

This process might also reveal minor rules, ones whumper never outright stated but punished anyway. Might reveal what whumpee Thinks was rules with a whumper that hurt just to hurt with no real meaning behind it, rules whumpee made up in their head to rationalize it.

Other things that would go on this list would be regular commands, or positions, or daily tasks and chores they would have been expected to carry out (if that doesn't already fall under Rules). Caretaker can see the routine whumpee had become used to. They can go through with whumpee and suggest replacements for tasks, or shuffling them around to be more humanizing.

And it's all mapped out, in paper and ink.

[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?

[whumptember]

2024 Prompt List

ask box | rules | tags and posting

Main Prompts

1. "Don't leave me." chains | failed escape attempt | abandoned building

2. "I can't do this alone." dried blood | begging for help | caretaker's front door

3. "You're my last chance." rusted metal | enemies teaming up | returning home

4. "Don't make me go back." white knuckles | used as bait | ballroom

5. "You've hurt them for the last time." slamming door | rescue | whumper's basement

6. "I never want to see your face here again." torn mask | reluctant villain | hero's headquarters

7. "Let me take care of you!" damp rag | whumpee turned caretaker | bathroom

8. "You'll never see me again." packed bag | secrets revealed | doorway

9. "What did they do to you?" bloodied clothes | homecoming | hospital reunion

10. "I need your help." breaking voice | secret intentions | villain's base

11. "One last favor, then I"ll leave you alone." knife | sacrificing themself | sacred ground

12. "Why did you do it?" new gravestone | confronting whumper | cemetery

13. "I never looked back, and I regret it every day." cracked foundation | city in ruin | middle of the road

14. "You changed my life. not for the better. Now I get to return the favor." blindfold | payback | abandoned warehouse

15. "I'm never going to let you go." silk ribbon | intimate whumper | whumper's bed

16. "What happened to you?" new clothes | recapture | whumpee's old room

17. "This wasn't the deal!" torn contract | betrayed | in the middle of the woods

18. "You're never going to see them again." letter on whumpee's pillow | disappeared in the night | caretaker's apartment

19. "Take me instead!" cloth gag | caretaker turned whumpee | getaway car

20. "I'm always going to be with you." worn letter | mourning | caretaker's bed

21. "I'm not okay." bruised skin | begging for help | hero's doorstep

22. "We have to go back and save them! They'd do the same for us!" drag marks | taken hostage | battleground

23. "You're nothing without me." invisible restraints | hero whumper | basement

24. "Change my mind, tell me why I'm wrong and I'll turn back and undo everything I've done." split lip | hero in the wrong | edge of a roof

25. "Stop it! You're going to kill them!" blood spattered wall | ambush | villain's home

26. "Let them go." blindfold and gag | ransom demand | undisclosed location

27. "Don't forget about me, alright?" packed bag | leaving home | secret destination

28. "I was supposed to save the world." shackled ankles | accidental villain | jail cell

29. "You're a child, go home now and I won't come after you. But if you stay and fight, I won't hold back." hand-made mask | villain mentor | bank vault

30. "What did I say about breaking the rules?" ruler stick | young whumpee | on their knees

Alternate Prompts

1. "You lied to them." 2. Broken wrist 3. "I've done things I can't even think about anymore." 4. Whispered apology 5. "You're coming back, right?" 6. Curled into a ball 7. "You make me feel like I can forget all the bad things." 8. Chained to a car 9. "This is just the beginning." 10. Villain whumpee 11. "Oh, come on, you can take more than that!" 12. Begging 13. "Don't make me."