#whumper is FREAKED
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whatiswhump · 10 months ago
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Whumper kidnaps Whumpee, not realizing they were on psychiatric meds, thus inadvertently cutting them off.
They're horrified watching Whumpee go into withdrawals- anger, mood swings, vomiting, unable to sleep, agitation, losing touch with reality rapidly.
Whumper wanted to have some fun... not... this. They’ve barely even touched them yet!
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letitbehurt · 11 months ago
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An immortal/self-healing Whumpee with nothing to show for the months of torture they endured.
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chaotic-orphan · 12 days ago
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The Assassin’s Hamartia
“Ah
 I see it now,” Bounty Hunter said. Assassin kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, which just so happened to be into the fire that they were camped around for the evening. Bounty Hunter bound her wrists behind her back, and while they were camping, bound her wrists to her ankles so she couldn’t get away too quickly without causing a commotion.
Bounty Hunter propped her chin up with the tip of his boot that made Assassin physically recoil. Bounty Hunter laughed. A loud, harsh sound. “The terrifying Assassin, the scourge of the Kingdom, is afraid of dirt?”
Assassin wanted to level Bounty Hunter with a glare. Tell him he was a fool and an idiot for suggesting such a ridiculous notion. Instead, she tried to look away, her cheeks heated with a pink shame.
“Hold on, Darlin’,” Bounty Hunter said as he crouched down and took her chin between his calloused, dirty fingers and forced her to look up into his smiling brown eyes. “The Queen of blood is afraid of not having a shower?”
“You’re just reciting all my titles from bards,” Assassin spat. “You must be a fan.”
“And you’re not denying you’re a little princess, darlin’.”
“Don’t call me that,” Assassin hissed, struggling to free her arms. “Aren’t you just supposed to bring me back to the King? Not talk me to death.”
“I can do whatever I like to you, sweetheart,” he said and the threat hung in the air like one of Assassin’s knives; poised over the jugular, ready to strike. “Oh yes. Which means
”
Without finishing his sentence, Bounty Hunter slapped a pile of mud against Assassin’s cheek and she gasped, her head flinging to the side. “I can do that.”
“No,” Assassin said, shrugging, trying to get the dirt off her cheek. This is ridiculous. How the fuck had he seen that after only being with her for a few hours?! Not even her closest confidants knew that, nevermind her enemies— he
 “Please, please. Get it off.”
Bounty Hunter laughed and got to his feet, walking back over to his tree and with a satisfied sigh he dropped and reclined against the bark, smirking at Assassin over the flames.
“I like to get down and dirty, darlin’. You just have to put up and shut up. But I do like to see how you squirm with a bit of mud. I may as well have shot your dog or summat.”
Assassin glared at him. Bounty Hunter smirked. “Well, have fun with that. We ride at dawn.”
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blixabargelds · 1 month ago
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things me and elo have watched louis hofmann do in films and shows over the last couple days
get hanged
get shot
hang himself
cry 300 times
kiss his aunt
fuck his aunt
fuck his psudeo aunt
strip mid nervous breakdown
attempt to break his own hand twice
smash his head into a mirror
hang himself again
get caressed naked in a bathroom by another man
bounce on dick
get railed into the bed (by another man)
kiss his mom
grind on his mom (get incest groomed)
get beaten by 15+ guys at once, three or four times
get buried alive
get hit with a shovel
get strung up in a basement
get beat up in general innumerable times
get forcibly stripped
love this guy !
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painsandconfusion · 2 months ago
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alright kids
it's a bad day, so what can I write/post for you to give a little joy? I'm settled in at a coffee shop ready for whatever you'd like
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whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot · 10 months ago
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Perfectionist, control freak Whumper, who wants to carve Whumpee's mind into "art". They need to control, down to the smallest detail, every single aspect of what Whumpee experiences.
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shywhumpauthor · 2 years ago
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Okay mock executions are fucking terrifying I have not seen nearly enough of them in the whump community.
Whumpee who knows they’re going to die the next week/day/few hours and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. The panic and desperation with no outlet. They claw at their restraints and throw themself at the door to their cell, uncaring as bruises bloom across their skin, or as blood begins to build up underneath their nails. They’re willing to sacrifice everything for the futile, fleeting hope of escape. They scream and beg until their voice goes hoarse even though there’s no one nearby to listen. Eventually, they crumple in on themself to the awful realization that their future is set and cut. They can’t even sleep without their dreams being plagued with this lingering terror. Maybe they’ve seen Whumper kill someone in the manner they’ve told Whumpee they are to be executed, so Whumpee can’t even pretend to think that maybe Whumper is bluffing.
When the day comes, they still haven’t settled into their fate. They’re absolutely hysterical, doing everything they can to stay away from Whumper and [insert place where they were planned to be executed]. Of course, this does nothing. If they won’t walk, Whumper’s men will simply drag them. At one point maybe Whumpee manages to break free for a short moment of hope, managing to throw their elbow against Henchman’s stomach and twist away, actions fueled only by the adrenaline flooding their mind. They take a single desperate lunge towards the door, before something hard catches them upside the head and knocks them down. Their vision is fuzzy and fleeting, hearing nothing but a faint ringing. Maybe they’re unconscious altogether as Henchman picks them up and continues to drag them towards their final destination.
Whumper plays out everything the way it was intended. They tie the blindfold over Whumpee’s eyes, exchange their chains for softer restraints. Whatever. Then when it comes time for the strike, for the blade to pierce through their chest or slit across their neck, all that Whumpee feels is a small prick against their neck, something cold flood through their body before their thoughts collapse under the intensify of the stress and their mind gives out.
Wherever they wake the following day, let it be somewhere much worse than death’s doorstep or a place so peaceful Whumpee couldn’t even begin to comprehend, Whumpee will be terrified. Panicked and confused. Their thoughts will have no answer as they realized there is no one else around to answer their cries. They wonder if this is death, the afterlife or whatever it was called.
That hope is crushed, replaced by even more of a helpless confusion as Whumper strolls through the door moments later, grinning as they ran their fingers across the sharp of a blade.
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friendlylocalwhumper · 9 months ago
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Shivers race up her legs from the cold of the concrete, although under her palms, the floor feels sickly warm. Riku’s chest fills and empties slowly, dazed breaths sinking out of her.
A hand slides up her side. Over soft ridges and dips, ignoring her sports bra entirely to feel at tension along her spine as if he can read that to gauge when she will collapse.
The cuts across the backs of her ribs burn. The skin is red and angry, even before beads of sweat roll across the shallow gashes.
“I don’t know why you’re still trying.” The deep voice hangs in the air to press persistently at her ears. Riku shakes her head, swaying to the left and then jerking back to center. A thick, messy braid falls over her shoulder to thump to the ground, fine hairs stuck to the back of her neck.
In the darkness of the cellar her mind can conjure up ugly images. The smug bastard’s lazy grin as she struggles. The boy who staggered out of here, set free as soon as the new catch was being dragged downstairs, looking shell-shocked. Her own blood splashed across the floor and drying at the edges.
All too soon she is collapsing into that puddle. Wobbly knees try to dig up under her stomach to get herself back up, but her legs are useless jelly. Panting open-mouthed, Riku hikes a lip up in disgust as he pets her shoulder like she just did a cute trick.
“Maybe now that you’ve tired yourself out, you’ll be sweeter.”
That frail boy who ran out might have responded to that, but she doesn’t. Riku Rose is not quick to crumble.
The palm that presses to her lower back feels as if it is made of fire, though, so she is quick to scream.
“...That’s all? No cursing me out? No begging? Who are you trying to be so tough for?”
Black coffee eyes roll and then glare down at the floor an inch from her smushed cheek. That annoyed expression gives way to stretch into a scream again as the cuts are touched again.
A fist in her hair, and Riku has a half-second to brace herself before the burn of her head being lifted. His breath is at her ear. “Beg for it to stop.”
The witch hisses out a breath. “I would. I
 would if, if I had to. But I have cramps worse than this.”
Fury is palpable in the air between them. His fist tightens. She grits her teeth and holds her ground, only halfheartedly trying to press her palms to the floor for relief.
She doesn’t even know she’s been dropped until her forehead bounces off the concrete. A sharp grunt against her will, and then a dizzy moan.
Fresh agony, red and blinding, somewhere between her shoulders and her knees. She has no idea where, it is too much to think around. It burns, and burns, and burns - a full minute later, as she comes down from hyperventilating to irregular gasps, Riku distantly processes only from the weight and force of it that he has brought his boot down on her sliced back and ground it in.
“That, that was, def-finitely worse,” She croaks miserably. “Worse for sure.”
The Hunter’s boot doesn’t lift. Riku tries to lift her head, but her cheek sticks to the floor, and her back ignites in pain again, and she flops back down with a grunt half an octave higher, more strained. Maybe she will beg soon.
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whumble-beeee · 11 months ago
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Let’s Have A Chat (You’re All Talk)
The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 4
Content: brief minor whump in flashbacks, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), gun mention, past captivity references, tied up, torture "threats", begging, tazer,
* * * * * * * *
Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters
[In terms of punishing and torturing your hero, 'fear of the unknown' is one of the most powerful tools available in your psychological torture toolkit; The anticipation of what might happen to them is often more torturous than whatever real tortures you have cooked up for them, and is a wonderful addition to any torture scenario!
It’s a very delicate skill, learning how to use a hero’s own fears against them (excluding villains with fear-based powers), but it is absolutely essential in almost all aspects of hero-keeping; whether you want to torture them for information, beat them into submission and servitude, force them to follow your rules or desires, or just have some good old fashioned fun messing with them!]
* * * * * * * *
“No,” Stan grunted. Enough was enough.
“No?” the mercenary’s voice broke into a small, disbelieving laugh, which just served to make Stan double down harder on what he hoped was the right choice.
“No. We’re not ‘chatting’. Not–” the world tilted on its axis, darkness creeping in his periphery again. Stan leaned his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. “N-not you and me, not now, not–... ever.”
Deeby just hummed another laugh at the display. “You should probably eat that protein bar, bud. Should help a bit with your head. And your mood, you're being such a little asshole right now.”
Stan rolled his eyes, but brought the protein bar up to his face to properly inspect. Though it was more of an accusation as he looked straight past it and narrowed his eyes at the bounty hunter instead.
The mercenary rolled his eyes in kind. “It’s not poisoned. Look, eat the protein bar and I’ll cut the ropes binding your legs, yeah? That good enough for his lordship?”
More than good enough for his lordship. A welcome trade, in fact. Especially since Stan was planning on eating the protein bar anyway. And especially because Deeby could probably just shove it down Stan’s throat if he wanted.
Stan nodded with a small ‘mhm’ before the bounty hunter could take it back. It took him a moment to maneuver the bar so he could open it with the metal of the handcuffs biting into his wrists every single time he pulled them too far apart, but he eventually found himself holding a successfully unwrapped protein bar with only slightly aching wrists.
“I'm eating this because I think I should,” Stan clarified as he brought the bar up to his mouth. It was cookie dough-flavored. Deeby had good taste in protein bars at least. “Not because you told me to, okay?”
“Uh huh, noted. Feeling less like a little shit now?”
Stan took a moment to make a full show of reluctantly nodding, irritated head tilt and all, before cramming the rest of the bar into his mouth. Before long, the ropes binding his feet were no more (after much restraint not to kick Deeby in the face when he got close with the knife again), and the protein bar was gone all too soon.
“Great!” The mercenary clapped his hands together. “Now we can talk! Ya like jazz?”
Stan grit his teeth. This Deeby guy just doesn't quit, does he? He wasn’t going to budge on this, even if he was slightly more fed and less dizzy now. He couldn’t just forget the total beatdown from earlier, the torturous soreness wracking every part of his body made sure of that.
“I'm not. Talking. With you.”
“Something’s gonna happen one way or another, runt. I’m just trying to give you the easy option considering you’re a little fucked in the head right now. Hard way’s not off the table, never will be.”
“We already talked!” Stan tried. “Remember? I asked you your name, you wouldn’t tell me. Then I asked you why you kidnapped me, you wouldn’t tell me! Who you work for, wouldn't tell me! Then you beat the crap out of me, and now I feel like I’m dying and leashed like a damn dog! That’s just gonna happen all over again! Let’s just skip over that so I can go back to dying on the floor, thanks.”
“Oh!” Deeby lit up like a lighthouse on a dark and stormy night, and Stan, for just a brief moment, almost let himself feel the same relief that a sailor might when they saw that spotlight on from the freezing, rain- and wind-swept deck of their lost ship. That he would actually leave Stan be. But then

“You wanna hear about my gun?”
He pulled the revolver from his hip holster and held it up like a prized trophy. “It’s an original Smith and Wesson 1957 Model 19 revolver, it's pretty famous for being the first handgun to use magnum cartridges and making that a common thing. It was also standard issue for the border patrol in the ‘70s, which is where it came into my family,” he chuckled. Stan could only stare dumbfounded. He was really just going on a rant, huh? 
“One of mis tíos just fuckin’ swiped it from one of the officers and they were pissed, chased after him, nearly caught him too but he managed to wiggle away, slimy little guy. And then my mom was so mad with him, nearly beat him half to death before their mamá even had the chance to. So anyway, I got it when I was just a kid, it was all broken and kinda shitty when I first got it, but it was a family heirloom and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, so I started to get into it more, started fixing it up a bit, replacing parts until it worked right and fiddling with it until it worked right, then started making upgrades to it, learned how to shoot it–”
”Holy shit!” Stan yelled, lurching to meet the mercenary’s eyes.  “Are you trying to Stockholm Syndrome me or something?! I don’t want to hear about your gun! I don’t want to talk to you, or hear about you! I don’t like you, I hate you, I don't want to have a nice little conversation with my fucking kidnapper! We aren't talking! Ever!”
A moment of silence. Stan realized he had gone too far again as the mercenary's eyes widened in disbelief. 
But he refused to back down this time. 
So he continued to glare into the mercenary’s dark brown eyes.
But then the bounty hunter let out a barking laugh. “Stock–... Sto-ockholm
?” he said, almost to himself, voice airy and high with disbelief. “Na-ah
 Nah, no, no...”
His gaze suddenly shot to Stan, face unnervingly blank. Stan tensed up, instinctively pulling his extremities in to protect himself, to make himself smaller. This was
 new. 
The mercenary took a few steps toward him. Then a few more. Until he was right in front of Stan, looking down on him like a god would from the heavens above.
“You ever been
 tortured?... Stan?”
The soft, weightless lilt of his voice turned Stan’s blood to ice.
"Never stop fighting back."
"Let GO OF ME!" He hit at an uncaring, unyielding fist. "LET GO!!"
"Just tell us about your powers, it doesn't have to get ugly."
Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie.
“N-no-o,” he barely managed to squeak out. His vocal cords may as well have been dunked in ice water. Same as his entire body, with the way he was shaking. Why did he always have to press too far?
“All you gotta do is show us your powers, kid.”
He didn’t move, the light of his powers staying tucked deep in his core. They tazed him again. They'd done it so many times now, it barely even mattered now. He was used to it. He'd never break.
“There's no use fighting, we have ways to force it out of you. We just want to give you a chance to cooperate first.”
Deeby hummed, as if it were quaint to him, the thought that someone could have never possibly been acquainted with the hot, unyielding spindles of torture twisting and morphing them into something unrecognizable, something animalistic, something
 altered. Someone to never be the same again.
“I've been tortured.” He chuckled, never breaking Stan’s gaze. “More than once, actually. Hazard of the job.”
He glared into his torturer's bright blue eyes, fires of defiance burning brighter in his own.
“Never.”
 He knew what all their eyes looked like. It was the only thing he could glare at, they always wore medical masks and scrubs and lab coats, so it was the only part of them he could see. So professional to do such visceral, horrendous things.
They tazed him again.
Stan didn’t move. Just stared. Then sputtered slightly. He didn’t know what to say to that. 
The bounty hunter didn’t seem to have such reservations, though. He moved forward wordlessly and crouched down in front of his captive. Stan’s breath hitched. He could hear his heartbeat, feel it pounding in his chest, slow, careful, thunderous. All consuming. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Were the bounty hunter’s eyes always such a dangerously dark scarlet? No escape at all.
Then Deeby grabbed either of Stan’s biceps, wholly wrapping his hands around Stan’s upper arms, and urged him upward to his feet. “Here, Stan, get up, I wanna show you something.”
The sky-blue eyes flashed to a colleague. “This isn't working. Let's just go with Plan A like I wanted to from the beginning.”
The colleague started to voice their protest but was cut quickly off.
“I don't care how old she is, I know! But being gentle doesn't work, it never does, and it never will! It’s time for the big guns.”
A grown-up hand grabbed his upper arm, drugged him up off the floor, and shoved him forward, iron-gripped no matter how much he kicked and screamed and cried out. Inescapable as he hit and tried to tug away. Unyielding.
“Wait–, wait, no, no, no, please! We–!” Stan cried, unsuccessfully trying to stay wrapped in his little ball of safety on the floor as the force pulled him upward, the dull roar of his beatings from earlier turning once more into a raging insistence of constant strain. “We can talk, we can talk! I just– I can’t– can’t– don’t–... please, please!”
Stan hissed as he put weight on his bad leg in his struggles, and had to practically fall into Deeby’s arm to relieve the agony. 
Deeby didn’t pay the struggling human in his clutches any mind and started to step backward, never once taking his eyes off Stan as he dragged him slowly but surely toward the middle of the room, ankle chain jingling as it dragged across the hard cement floor. “Cálmate, chiquito, te estás poniendo tan alterado. Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”
Tears burned at his eyes as he tried to grasp at Deeby’s arms, the pressure building up in his sinuses making it so he could barely breathe. It was so much harder to struggle to get away when he had to physically lean on his captor. Torturer.
“I don’t–” his voice cracked as it shot up his register, and he grasped in another breath as tears started to fall. “I do-on’t speak S-s-spani-ish
 plea-ease–”
They abruptly reached the end of the ankle chain-leash, and Stan pitched forward with a screech, practically into Deeby’s chest before Deeby stiffened his arms and righted him again. Stan tried to make himself so tremendously small, tried to hide even though he was already captured and chained and physically being held by a man who had shown he wasn’t afraid to, and even enjoyed, hurting him.
And now in the center of the torture room, on the very end of his literal chain.
Nowhere to go.
“Of course you don’t, white boy.” Deeby sighed, a hint of that humorous light shining back in his eyes. He gently grabbed his jaw and tipped his gaze upward. Those bits of red in Deeby’s irises seemed to bleed out into the rest of the world, infecting everything with crimson and scarlet and fire and flames.
The world burned around them. Stan tried to pull away, but the bounty hunter’s grasp held firm.
“It means calm down, chiquito,” he said from somewhere miles away. “You’re getting so worked up, making everything worse for yourself. I won’t hurt–”
Stan seized up and grabbed at Deeby’s arms even as they held him in place, clawed at them, pleading, shaking as tears rolled off his chin, down his neck, and soaked into his shirt.
“PLE-E-EASE!” He cried. “I don’t– I don’t want– I can’t be tortured!” He prayed that wouldn’t be taken as a challenge. “Please don’t
 torture me. I can’t
 Please.” Not again. Not again.
Deeby looked down upon him, carefully peeling Stan’s trembling fingers off his arms. A small, unnerving smile tugged at the sides of his eyes, like a father looking on as his toddler struggled to produce a finger painting that wasn’t just a staining hideous mess for the hundredth time in a row.
“Who said anything about torturing you, bud? Wait here a moment.”
Deeby shoved away from the quivering mess and made his way over to the wall opposite where Stan’s leash-chain was anchored to the floor, and jumped up to grab the end of a previously unseen chain that, when when the bounty hunter grabbed it off the hook and let the length of it fall free, swung down and hung from the ceiling right next to Stan. 
Stan took a single unconscious step backward from the thing in terror, and immediately his buckled buckled in a flurry of strained agony, sending Stan straight down to a kneel. He clutched at the offending knee joint, cursing the mercenary for making him overwork and twist his knee in that failure of an escape attempt and hurting it so much worse in the first place. At least before he could kind of hobble along without a cane or a crutch. It wasn't pretty, or fun, but he could do it. Now he was practically immobile.
And he just had to hope it would heal correctly.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to move?”
Stan whipped around and nearly toppled over again in the process. “I– I jus–!” 
Two hands grabbed under either of his armpits and hoisted him back up to standing before Stan could even stutter out another terrified plea. He was so dizzy that he was almost thankful that the man grabbed him under the arms to keep him from falling again. Even with how the action in itself made him want to scream.
“Deeby, Deeby, we can talk, we can talk, you don’t–! You don’t have to–”
“Did you just call me ‘Deeby’?” He stopped in his maneuvering Stan, a petrified hush falling over the hero as he forced eye contact once again. “Like the name ‘Deeby’, not the letters ‘D’ and B’?”
“Uh--... No, no
” Stan squeaked.
Deeby’s amused smile faltered just slightly. 
“Don’t lie to me runt, that shit’s funny... Deeby, huh?
” he mused, rolling the name around in his mouth. “Not very creative, but you gotta give points for simplicity
 Pft, Deeby
 ”
Then his attention shot right back to Stan. “Anyway, stop whining and squirming, I’m about 5 seconds away from actually getting pissed. Are you gonna listen to the story, or we gonna do plan B and actually give you something worth screaming about?”
Stan wanted to keep struggling. Yelling, being defiant, begging, pleading, fighting, something. Those thoughts fueled him as he held the bounty hunter’s gaze; he didn’t want to just roll over and let him do as he pleased with him. But the way the hunter held him now, and the way he physically overpowered Stan time and time again just made him feel like a small, hissing cat uselessly fighting against his owner as they held him high into the air as some sort of punishment. And the fear of something worse happening finally managed to overpower the blind panic that fueled his previous fight. The tiredness continually crept through his bones now, the ache of his injuries starting to once again overpower all other senses.
So when the stare of Deeby became unbearable, Stan pursed his lips and squeezed shut, bowing his head in concession with a small, shaky nod.
He just hoped this lost battle wouldn’t become just one in a never-ending sea of them.
The mercenary let out an infuriatingly triumphant huff. “Great. Don't move. I mean it.” 
Then Deeby let Stan go almost too fast, and he had to readjust to fully supporting his entire battered body again.
He had to shift to support his entire weight on his 'good' leg instead of agitating the bad leg further, or god forbid using his cane or a crutch. Or his powers. The good leg would get painfully sore very quick if he had to just keep standing here. Especially since he was already feeling the bruises from earlier starting to bloom.
But this was better than literally all of the alternatives. He just had to let Deeby talk and hopefully, he wouldn’t torture Stan.
Simple.
He was looking forward to it already.
* * * * * * * *
Next
Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid
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scratchandplaster · 2 years ago
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Stack The Deck - PART 8
CW: toxic relationship, abuse of various kinds, misogyny, stalking, manipulation, injury, Carewhumper, reluctant Whumper
PART 7 ⇜ [Masterlist] ⇟ PART 9
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
[2 WEEKS AGO]
They didn't sleep a lot this night, an event Morris never complained about. Flitting across the room, Amber was busy to collect the few clothes she carried on her body the day before. Her hair seemed a bit more dull than usual, wild and sprinkled with the smell of cheap vodka. She jumped into her oversized jeans. Hopping on one leg, clearly trying to keep her balance, yesterday's excess still weighing her down. He adored her so much, his heart stopping its beat for just a second.
"Whatcha looking at?" She turned to face him, an eyebrow playfully raised. Teasing.
"Just you," he whispered, sleep sticking to his voice, making it sound rough and hungry, "do you need to leave already? I thought we could spend the day together?"
Sharing a knowing smile with Morris, she continued to dress herself haphazardly, throwing pieces of fabric over herself to fight the freezing cold outside. She appeared more hectic than usual.
In a few hours, this nervousness would turn into itches burrowed directly under her skin, crawling their way inside her bones. They would be together by then, Morris hoped, always ready to allay her pain. That's what he wanted, what he was here for.
"Can't," she finally revealed, "'m busy with work." You don't work.
"Oh, alright!", he retorted instead, forgiving her quick lie without thinking anything by it, ""What about tonight? We could watch a movie..."
"I'm busy."
"Well, how about-"
"Planned the whole week, sorry." She didn't, he checked thoroughly.
"What about yesterday? You had enough time for me there."
Something was wrong, he could feel it, they usually didn't take long breaks from each other. She called him whenever her stash ran short, knowing that she doesn't get anything better than what Morris has to offer. A little extra, just for you, Amber.
Her expression soured, emerald eyes pressing together to form thin slits: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Morris didn't mean to fight, honestly trying his best to mediate the rising tension between them. Nevertheless, Amber made it hard to stay calm. He sat himself up to get a better look at her, distracted by zipping up her boots. As if he wasn't even in the room.
"I just think we should spend more time together, that's all!"
She was fully dressed by now and ready to leave, more fidgety than normal, it couldn't be the beginning withdrawal that made her so on edge. Twitching uncomfortable, she continued to face him.
"And what do you want to do with all that?"
He usually found her jokes to be cute, but this was different. Malicious even.
"This!" he stated bewildered, not knowing how else to respond, "This is all I'd ever want. You, me...us."
"This?" Amber sounded agitated, no, offended, like he just insulted her mother. "This is nothing, everyday living. One day you wake up, and your whole life is spent in what? Routine?"
She probably was just irritated, he had to track her cycle again, to avoid conflict. Whatever hormones she was suffering under currently, it didn't give her the right to-
She interrupted his sympathetic line of reasoning, more than angry: "What exactly do you think we are, huh?" 
What a question.
"Amber, this is serious...We-we talked about this months ago!"
"When I feel like it is, sure. Once you got the 'yes' I hoped you would stop being so fucking clingy."
He was standing at last, his hair tousled in all directions, it gave his confusion an even more convincing look. 
"See, I need to go. I call you after work." He probably should have let it go by then, but that wasn't his manner.
"Yeah? After the work you quit six weeks ago because you don't have to finance your little habit anymore; you can just tap me any time of day, right?!"
In disgust, she stopped looking for her purse to scowl at Morris, caught in her own little scheme, still never going to admit it. He knew her better than anyone else could.
"Whatever you think to know about my business, you have no fucking idea what you're talking about. Pathetic."
None of them realized how quickly it escalated, him storming towards her and halting just inches apart. Tall enough to look down on her, he spoke with the most collected tone he could muster in this situation.
"I take care of you, give you everything you want and that's how you talk to me?"
"A lot of people do these days," she spat in his face, taking every sliver of kindness out of the air between them, "and I'll replace you in a second, if you force me to."
Morris clenched his teeth to the point of nearly bursting his enamel, planting himself in front of her to take as much space as possible.
She doesn't mean it, but that doesn't give her the right to treat me like that!
Convinced that he did nothing wrong, he remained in this sorry excuse of a threatening posture.
Amber wouldn't budge an inch. She knew exactly how to handle men like Morris, she met them often enough and every time, it turned out the same.
"I'm leaving," she spoke with an unknown malice to her self-proclaimed boyfriend, "don't expect me to come back."
With that, she turned towards the door, trying to get out of the bedroom and to the one separating them from the hallway, hopefully without any disturbance. Morris turned with her, blocking the exit. She couldn't just leave like this, he needed her to listen!
"I'll scream, Chris!" her voice now a few pitches higher, fright clawing its way up her spine, "one call and the police will drag you back where you belong."
With that, she quickly squeezed past him and leaped down the stairs, leaving the door to hang open.
His vision white with anger but too frozen to do anything about it, Morris tried to sort his racing thoughts. He had known her to be less than loyal, sure, having fun was nothing to be ashamed of. But nobody just lets him stand in the dark like an idiot. Whatever poor soul she replaced him with - he couldn't bear the idea of it, thinking about it more like a quick change in scenery - he would be ready to forgive that slip-up too. He was patient enough for that, for her. She would learn that soon enough.
He had nothing to worry about, her imprudence would work in his favor. A few days at best, and she lays right where she belongs.
"You will crawl back to me, begging for my forgiveness!“ he screamed down the abandoned stairway, "Just you wait!"
--------
Elliot wondered if he would know anything besides unconsciousness. It felt more familiar by now, not that it bothered him: he preferred the thoughtless drifting over the waking world.
He understood nothing while laying in the stinted niche, his whole arm pulsating in heat. It had spread from his last two digits towards his elbow and further to the back of his neck. Wet and shaky, the limb continued to lay uselessly on the towel, blood-soaked, like everything else around him.
Elliot didn't want to recognize the familiar pressure next to him, like a shadow waiting to be seen. His captor hadn't moved in quite a while, impossible to pass even when asleep. The door leading to the garage and outside probably wasn't locked, he was practically free to go. 
Yeah, sure. 
God knows what Morris would rip out of him, if he dared to even look in the wrong direction. So he didn't.
The empty can was placed neatly on the mattress. Deep inside, he hoped Morris would just drug him up, let him forget the heat, the deep pain, the fact he would never sit at a piano again... Maybe he should cut that thing off, make it all go away.
Don't think about that, don't...
Tiny sniffles made their way up his nose. He would wake him up, he would come to and just make everything worse, Elliot was sure. The quiet weeping made him unaware of the silhouette shifting beside him, only a little, to place its meaty paw onto his shoulder.
"Don't cry, it's alright." 
It patted along the giant jacket enclosing Elliot, making his nerves flare up in agony once again. Screaming and crying: not fun, so shut the fuck up, come on...
"I've torn a ligament in my knee once, physical therapy really did its wonders." He ought to curse Morris out by now, but couldn't find a single spark of anger anymore, he was drained. "Your insurance should cover that, I hope."
No response came to guarantee Morris his incapacitated playmate was still up for a round. Trying wouldn't kill him, though.
"You wanna go back to the living room while we wait? It's warmer anyway, but if you still need to throw up, I can stay here."
Nothing. Playing hard to get, Morris assumed, he could handle that.
"She must really hate me, huh?" Elliot whispered instead. 
Please don't hurt my family. He thought of Ginkgo too, and how she would only survive for a week without him, like he deserved it for being always so fucking useless to everyone...
Morris dug through his back pocket, pulling out the stack of cards, nicked and smeared with what had swept out of him hours ago. It was time again if he wanted to or not.
I bore him, Elliot grasped, wanting to burst out laughing, like a bad episode he just wants to skip.
Quickly shuffling through the stack, he dealt them out as before, not being satisfied with solitaire or building a simple house of cards. Morris had spent so much energy to not hate the unfamiliar man, someone who had no fault regarding his experience with Amber. It used to feel like it, in a way, but not anymore. They were the same.
"You can start whenever you like!", he offered friendly, shifting to face Elliot, who still laid on his side.
Am I going to lose a foot if I decline? Or will you beg for my attention again?
"I never know what's the matter with you..." Elliot said instead, way too loud and not even meant to leave his head.
"I just want to make this easy for us - for you. Like yesterday, it went so well, better than I had expected."
Proud of managing his first-ever job without any assistance, Morris forgot for a second how everything after their boozy session went downhill. He wanted to hear about Elliot again, his hobbies, his life. We should start on common ground.
So he asked about the only thing really catching his attention:
„How did you meet Amber? You seem like a killjoy to me, not somebody she would drag around the nightlife."
"Houseparty of a mutual friend, Sarah, you know her? Contralto."
Of course, Morris knew her, she gave him a displeased look or two during their time together. Because he didn't belong to them, without Kant and Doc Martens. So he pretended to, just like right now, planning to google that word later in the day.
Elliot was turning absent again, he just parroted back the small talk.
"What about you?" A little meet-cute at the crack house? Wait-
"I don't think you wanna hear this," Morris continued, a bit quieter than normal. He shoved a few loose cards towards him.
No, nononono-
Through the fevered heat that started to crawl up his nape, he could finally see clear. He paid with two of his fingers to get the answer he was searching for.
"We met online and had a few drinks, nothing special." LIAR.
"Before or after?" he asked, nearly impossible to snuff out painful laughter. Morris just looked back at him with confusion. "Did she fuck you before or after you sold her weed?"
No answer to that, not that Elliot was in need of one. Twice in a year, this man ruined his life, and it took him way longer than expected to realize it.
"She always told me about a pharmacist," Elliot spoke to the ceiling above, to anyone who would listen, "and about how he would treat her so much better than I do, how ungrateful I was."
Morris didn't say a word, back to his stoic self. A lot more crest-fallen, admittedly, collecting the playing cards again.
"She loves this, her little fairy tales. Needs it. And when you're not worth the attention anymore, you get replaced, rebranded."
Morris knew it was a cocktail of the spreading infection paired with an old wound ripped open, he just wished back the Elliot who treated him with respect, like an actual human being. 
"You don't just break up with her like that, Elliot."
"Fuck, I sure did. If she cheats, what else are you supposed to do? Be alone, Morris, better alone than trapped."
"I have to do this. I have to. That's the last chance I get," Morris tried to convince Elliot, or maybe just himself.
"Nobody's making you do this. It's just you, always has been... Crippling me because a girl ghosts you, do you even hear yourself?"
His fleeting politeness didn't linger to aid his survival. Morris sounded like a toddler by now, unbelievable that this would be the man to ultimately end his life. Killed by a butthurt man-child, what a way to go. Elliot took it personally, though, he had every right to.
Morris would lose his calm any second to jump on top of him: strangling, stabbing, slicing. It was just a matter of time.
"I need to change that," he murmured, pointing to the dirty gauze and letting his mind drift far away from the accusations Elliot threw at him.
If it's delivered, her phone's on. And when it's on, she uses it. There was no other explanation, right? 
"Don't! I don't want your help!" 
Still, Elliot had no strength to resist the force with which his hand was taken from him, gently turned to be inspected.
"Look away!" he was told, while the jacket draped over his head to obscure the sight.
Please, I need to see, I need to know how bad it is. 
No matter how much he had insulted him just moments prior, Morris was so careful with his limb. A limb that was still attached to the rest of the infection-stricken man.
He didn't cut them off, Elliot realized, he didn't cut them off because he likes me.
He was correct with that assumption. Morris found joy in his captive, making the sight even harder when he pulled down the bandages. The whole upper part of Elliot's fingers were tinted in a cold blue, dark and unnatural to the sight. Tissue around the cuts was soft, providing no resistance when held. Like Play-Doh.
Morris thought of the medical dramas Amber forced him to watch more than once, but this was different. Squirming in the grasp, it was apparent that Elliot tried his best to stay still. Further up the digits, another agitator fell into his gaze: What had been white bloodless spots evolved into blisters.
Not blisters really, wet and open circles of infection, beginning to turn black in the middle. Morris thought of the bogman they pulled out of his grandmother's moorland when he was just about five. A hiker, the police told the villagers. It also smelled like it, decay tainting the bathroom.
"Does it look alright?" a thin voice came forward. No, it didn't.
"Sure, just as I said. A few screws and you're good as new." Morris needed to get more pills into his system, anything to help him overcome this. Amber should call any minute now, he hoped, claiming her to be sick for leading them on for such a long time.
------
I'm sorry, please call back. We can make this work.
Why don't you answer? I just want to explain myself!
Did you get a new number? Don't ignore me.
Are you with him again?
I have ways of making you talk to me, I'll make you regret your stubbornness.
Don't force me to do this.
After that, he had sent the first picture. Elliot in the stuffy trunk, bound like a birthday present and smeared with blood all over his face, blissfully unaware of the days to come. She had to have witness that, at least. Morris imagined her sitting together with her friends, laughing about how desperately he tried to get anywhere with her. Pathetic fit him.
He should have accepted Elliot's advice, snatch up one of those shallow leeches to mistreat instead. Rhys, that annoying prick always trying to start shit about current politics or Liz, dumb as a rock and twice as bland. Or Sahra, always at the butt of the joke.
Why not, actually, she didn't seem to be one to enjoy Amber. Sometimes, at least. Rummaging through Elliot's contacts, he quickly found what he was looking for. He couldn't fuck this up even more, so what was left to lose?
"Hello?" a confused voice answered, probably annoyed about being disturbed on a Sunday morning.
"Hey, Sahra. It's Chris!" Don't you dare hang up, don't complicate this further! "I just wanted to ask how you're doing!"
Silence.
"If you're searching for Amber, she not with me right now."
Short and brutal, she explained what he already knew. After the standstill on her socials, Amber didn't even visit her favorite bars or clubs, not even Sahra. He checked that.
"And she's still pissed about your fight, so don't expect anything from me."
Morris tried to take her gossiping lightly, wanting to get more information.
"Yeah, I know. It didn't go as planned, I tried to make amends, but she just went AWOL everywhere. Can't blame her for avoiding me." Hoping she would take the bait, Morris waited a second to let his desperation seep through the speaker. "By the way, how is your practice going?"
"What do you care?"
Bitch. With a glimpse towards the bathroom door, Morris walked up and down the living room, keeping the chit-chat going. What was the word again?
"I wanted to get us both tickets, Amber and me, for the show. You perform this Christmas, don't you? Wanted to bring on the advent spirit, just a little." Come on.
"Oh yeah, that's true," she admitted, a bit more gentle now. "I didn't know you kept that in mind."
"Contralto, right? I just want to make it up to her, but she ignores me ever since. I guess that's what I deserve..."
A sigh could be heard at the end of the line, he could practically hear her chewing her lip.
"Listen, Chris, that's sweet of you. But I don't think she will be able to go, even if she wanted." A horrible accident was the only acceptable reason for her behavior. He could visit her, bring her flowers, tuck her back into bed...
"Oh my god," he gasped instead, "please don't tell me it's something bad. I always told her to drive slower, I couldn't-"
"No, no, don't worry," came the hectic answer, "Well, maybe worry a little. I don't know if you should-"
"I just want to know if she's hurt! Please, Sahra, I agonized over this for two weeks!" Swallow that whole, you fucking cunt.
"You didn't hear that from me, okay?"
"I didn't hear anything!" He was close, so close.
"Fuck, Chris, she's in rehab."
For a second, Morris thought of nothing, like every plan and problem he juggled for the past weeks had left him for good. Rehab? No, she doesn't need that. He could take care of her, he could make it better... She didn't need that!
"Bought impure stuff. Some bastard cut it with heroin."
"Oh," he said flatly, "fucking hell."
Her information was still wrong, Amber didn't buy it.
"Yeah, but the outcome is nice, I suppose. Vegan buffet, aquarobics and all that bullshit. I just hope she's doing fine. It's some alternative place her parents picked out, no Wi-Fi and all that, they don't even allow them phone calls. I tried to reach her too, but no chance. You know, I always suspected-"
He let her tell the stories of Ayurveda treatments and deep cleansing methods in between therapy sessions and how long that might take. Weeks, she suspected. Time neither Morris nor Elliot had left, especially not here.
She hadn't seen any of it, any of the things he did for her.
Why didn't he call earlier, why did he give into the fantasies of getting back at her through hurting a man - hurting Elliot? Silently, he called himself every insult in the book, his self-image being drowned in shame. Morris had never been idiotic, though, the truth was considerably more wearing. Jealous, that's all he was.
"Chris?" It's been him, it has always been him. "Why did you argue?"
"She hurt someone," he answered automatically, his mouth as dry as the now blood-stained grout, "Our mutual...friend. It's bad, Sahra, I don't know what to do."
"Well, that's nothing new with her, right?" she whispered, taking a deep breath before marking the end of the pleasantries, "Please don't call me again."
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Thanks for reading đŸ€ [Febuwhump 2023 Masterlist]
@febuwhump
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Note
what does whump mean? /gen
oh! i know this one :D whump is hurting a character
there are lots of different types of whump but the main ones i see are physical and psychological whump. there's also quite a bit of hurt/comfort. there's a lot more information on blods dedicated to whump but here's a post i usually use to introduce people to whump
hope this helped!
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whumpbwomp · 10 months ago
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Whumpee then wakes up to Whumper's hand replacing theirs. It's a mocking attempt at comfort, a condescending action that feels more like Whumper is petting their family dog.
Imagine a whumpee being alone while sick or injured. They card their fingers through their own hair and fall into a half-sleep, imagining and/or hallucinating someone they love being there for them. Maybe it’s a memory from a time they were taken care of.
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casekek · 1 month ago
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some whump tropes that i enjoy immensely
- whumpee being overstimulated by sensory stimuli - bright lights, loud/repetitive sounds, being touched, certain smells - and wincing or shrinking down to get away from it
- unresponsive whumpee who doesn’t give a crap anymore. theyd let someone push them over and theyd just topple to the side and lay there. they don’t respond to goodwill attempts to help, like having a bowl of warm food placed in front of them. they’ve checked out.
- familiar/casual whumpees - whumpees who are familiar with being treated a certain way so they don’t put up much of a fuss to being spit on or kicked. Just groan and move on with your day (could work rly well with ‘living weapon’ i feel)
- whumpees with collars!!!! it’s too dang good. especially if it’s a shock collar and they’re afraid to speak for fear of getting zapped. Bottom line is, you are property.
- whumpee being treated like a child and getting really pissed about it. bonus if the whumper has to resort to some atypical child behavior remedies to keep whumpee in their ‘role’ - such as chains, drugs, etc
- whumpee who refuses to part with an object, such as a mask, and freaks out if anyone so much as touches it.
- caretaker removing masks or collars when the time is right - only to catch whumpee wearing it again in fear or for comfort
- whumpees hands shaking so badly they can’t write or pick things up, and breaking things because their fine motor control is so horribly shot
- whumpee’s injuries being discovered by a group of caretaker friends; whumpee attempts to minimize and de escalate the damage they endured, while friend group is getting bent out of shape in horror over what was done to whumpee, and falling over each other to begin taking care of them
- whumpee being resuscitated and immediately leaping back into action without a thought to the fact that they just DIED; caretaker friend trying to get them to slow down and rest for one freaking second
- ANY kind of retrograde amnesia is soooo tasty. Especially when they don’t remember people they love and just stare at them with a blankly polite smile - OR whumpees who become aggressive with fear over not remembering anything!!
- whumpee seeing/hearing things and freaking out about it while caretaker tries to calm them down
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chicken-noodle-whump · 13 days ago
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Whump Poll
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whumpthefuck · 20 days ago
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Pet Whump - Training & Stuff
I need like NEED more pet whump focused more on the actual training process.
Whumper getting whumpee used to sleeping in a kennel. So confined and restrictive that even when they aren't in the kennel they begin to naturally curl up into a tight ball while sleeping.
Making sure Whumpee never speaks, not like a person at least, maybe the training is so good that even after whumpee is saved, all they can manage is barks and whines just like a dog.
Whumper forces whumpee to eat dog food, or an equivalent, right out of a dog bowl, just like a dog should. When whumpee is saved, they simply refuse to eat for a few days, they're a good dog, good dogs don't eat off plates.
Until finally caretaker (desperate to avoid whumpee developing refeeding syndrome) buys a dog bowl for whumpee. Which, much to the relief (and slight horror) of caretaker, finally gets whumpee to eat, though hesitantly, after all whumper did good to teach whumpee that dogs don't eat people food.
Caretaker has to get creative to find ways to get whumpee to eat actual people food that won't make them feel like they're disobeying.
Whumpee who insists on sleeping at the foot of caretaker's bed, who sits beside the bed whimpering and whining until finally caretaker relents, whumpee jumping up on the bed and quickly falling asleep at caretaker's feet.
Whumpee is taught commands, sit, stay, roll over, it takes some convincing (withholding food, shock collar, beatings) but eventually whumpee begins to play along.
Whumpee feels an attachment to their collar, because being collared means being owned, being owned means you're useful, the only reason whumpee survived whumper is because they stayed useful. So when caretaker tries to take whumpee's collar off they become hysterical, crying and freaking out, cowering in a corner. The first time caretaker hears whumpee speak is whumpee begging to not be put down, that they can learn more tricks. They can do better, be better. They'll do anything, anything if it means they'll stay caretakers pet.
Whumpee had watched other 'pets' being put down, usually in awful slow and painful ways. As whumper always said "If you aren't useful alive, you might as well be entertaining as you die".
It takes caretaker nearly an hour to get whumpee to calm down, even then they can still hear whumpee's quiet sobs when caretaker is in the other room.
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defire · 2 months ago
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Traumatized caretaker things
(shared trauma vibes)
Content: caretakers making things WORSE, emotional abuse, ptsd, bad caretaker?
"whumpee. Talk to me. Why are you ignoring me?!" Whumpee, afraid of saying the wrong thing and getting punished. Caretaker freaked out cause their whumper went silent before attacking.
Whumpee staring after caretaker as they go to freak out, whumpee's eyes filling with tears. Abandoned, again.
"whumpee, i told you it's NOT YOUR FAULT!" Whumpee flinches at the tone. Caretaker can't handle whumpee's self-gaslighting. It reminds them too much of their own past.
"why didn't you help me, caretaker?" Whumpee cries. "You were right there." Caretaker can't answer. They were too afraid to intervene after what happened last time. They just couldn't do that again.
Caretaker, seeing whumpee covering themselves up in shame. Trying not to cry because of their own awful memories, they become stony, scaring whumpee.
"why didn't you just tell him to stop?" Caretaker says (because they've asked themselves that too many times and now it's just habit to blame the victim.)
Caretaker giving solid advice. "Start with your physical needs. One thing at a time."
"I've been through this before, whumpee. Please, listen to me, it's okay to cry."
Caretaker seeing whumpee having a panick attack. Sitting down next to them and offering things that would've soothed them when they had to recover... Alone.
Also toxic caretaker because unresolved trauma!
"You should've just done what they said."
Or, "why didn't you fight back? I did."
Whumpee feeling like if caretaker doesn't understand, no one every could.
Caretaker seeing whumpee show up with bruises on their neck and knowing precisely what happened immediately
Not being able to handle it. Throwing medical supplies at whumpee and going away to cry.
Walking whumpee through the stages of grieving about their trauma. Trying not to get caught up in their own experiences
Whumpee and caretaker venting to each other and swapping roles
"she held a gun to my head and shot right next to my ear!" "Yeah, mine hung me for a full 60 seconds..."
Caretaker rubbing scars and old injuries where they were hurt as they take care of whumpee
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