All I want to do is write this scene where one character treats another character gently and the other one is just totally undone by it in a “this gentleness upsets me far more than all the traumatizing things that have happened to me in this entire story because the suffering was pretty much expected whereas this is just…outside of my comfort zone” and somehow this is difficult. 

YO can I get this but also with a side of “character being gentled starts to break down finally beginning to process how fucked up their past treatment actually was because holy shit they’re so close to tears over someone being so NICE to them, AND being reluctant to go into it with the character being gentle bc they’re afraid they’ll sound pathetic”?

The gentle character is terrified that they are doing something terribly wrong because the hair-stroking or hugging or whatever seems to be making the other character SO uncomfortable, but when they apologize and stop, the other character actually grabs their hand to keep them from going away.

And is not sure if they want it to continue or not because the kindness is making them break down and they’re not sure they’re ready to be so vulnerable (read: did not plan to ever be vulnerable again, like EVER) and so they’re acting really weird and maybe moody but also needy. But also trying NOT to look needy.

They are convinced to the bottom of their soul that this neediness will drive the other character away and must be hidden at all costs, but also it would be so nice and also totally impossible but it would be really nice if it was possible for the other character to see that neediness and… not be revolted by it? 

Broken Pieces

The caregiver was beginning to think that this was a bad idea.

It had just been a suggestion from a friend:

“The whumpee needs a change a scenery.  Something to make them happy and more relaxed, you know?  Remind them of a better time.”

They had always talked about the sea.  They’d traveled there with their family before everything went to hell.  They treasured soundscapes of waves and screen savers of ocean sunsets.

But now that they were here?  The whumpee couldn’t swim.  The water reminded them of fake drownings, the whumper repeatedly slamming their head in a bucket of brine, their legs kicking and kicking until exhaustion replaced desperation and they were pulled up just to be slammed back down again.  The salt reminded them of grit shoved in their open wounds so they wouldn’t heal properly, only sting and sting until the whumpee admitted defeat.  They never did.

Even though the caretaker had chosen a beach with beautiful weather and light crowds, the whumpee refused to take off their long sleeves and many layers.  They were too ashamed of the scars that now covered their body, proof (to them at least) that the whumper at marked them as their own forever.

The only time the whumpee seemed to get any peace was after sundown when they walked with their caregiver on the wave-tossed sand searching for shells.

Bored at first, the caretaker finally found focus by becoming eagle-eyed.  They stooped down to examine bits that, when scoured of sand, might produce a full conch shell.  They searched for full angel wing piddock pairs.  Most of the time they were disappointed, tossing their worthless finds back to the beach, but by the end of the week they had accumulated a tidy collection of perfect shells.

“Come on, whumpee!” They called over their shoulder as they packed the last of their treasures.  "It’s time to go or we won’t make it back before nightfall.“  They paused.  "Whumpee?”  But there was no answer.  "Whumpee!“

The caretaker barged into the whumpee’s room, reminded of bloodstained tile from the one time they’d accidentally left the whumpee alone with plastic children’s scissors.

What they saw instead was the whumpee shaking, trying to shove millions of shredded pieces of shells into their pack.

“What in the…”  The caregiver fell to their knees, examining the nearest piece.  They recognized it.  They’d thought it was a moon snail shell the third night of their trip, but when they realized it was just a shiny shard of sea glass, they’d thrown it back without a thought.

“D…don’t take them.” the whumpee whispered.  They hugged their chest with one hand, scooping up as many shells as they could with the other.

“These are just trash, Whumpee.  You can take a few to remember the trip, but you don’t need all of them.”

“You got to keep all of yours.”

“Because I have 5 not 500.”

“243.”  Suddenly the whumpee uncurled and moved between their bag and the caregiver, shoving shells desperately behind them as them went.  "There are 243 of them and they are NOT TRASH!“

The caregiver looked down at the shell fragment still in their hand.

“They’re broken, that’s all. They got smashed or cracked or scarred, but that’s not their fault.  They’re still, they’re still…”  They whumpee’s face turned pale, their chest puffing as they searched for the words.

“They can still be shells.” the caregiver finished.  "It doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful.“

The whumpee nodded and deflated, letting their head fall on the caregiver’s lap.

“Then I guess we better get another bag for these,” the caregiver said.  "And Whumpee?  You’re still beautiful too.”

content warning: referenced/implied past noncon.

Emory’s fingers trace lightly across Lux’s chest, warm and soft. As his fingertips trail over scars, he recalls the stories, the confessions, that Lux has given for some of them.

H-he had a knife, Lux whispered, once. He had a knife and I w-wasn’t allowed to yell.

The whip. Most-, mostly hit my back, but he, he kicked me over and got my front ‘cause, ‘cause it hurts more like that.

Glass. Got pushed, fell on a broken - broken table? Was dizzy, ‘m not sure… long time ago.

Emory hates knowing, but what he hates even more is guessing and picturing all the ways Lux might have been hurt.

So when his touch finds a small arc of bumpy scar tissue, Emory has to ask.

“Lux?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s this from?”

The warlock tips his head up to look down at his own chest; as soon as he sees the scar, he lays his head back and stares up at the ceiling.

“What’s it look like?” Lux replies, no accusation or frustration in his tone.

“Looks like…” Emory knows what it looks like, but he just can’t imagine, can’t accept, how Lux got it. “A bite mark.”

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Vampire Whump 6: The Journey

Part 1,  2,  3,  4,  5

I’m back at it again with more vampire whump!!! Have another 4k words of Callum and this nameless vampire, traipsing through the desert and being dumbasses. 

Content Warnings for this one: Conditioning, aftermath of torture, using ‘it’ as a pronoun, blood, fear, some comfort, reluctant caretaker, kindness, but the whumpiest kind, ??? It will get fluffier as we go, also, it’s fluffier than it sounds 

Tagging the amazing @jay-whumples @pepperonyscience @learningtowhump @robinshouseofwhump @shameless-whumper @whumpingmydarlings @whump-em and @silverinkgoldenquill, who asked for more :)

~~

The journey is long, and the vampire spends most of it totally numb and disconnected. Something horrible is waiting for it back in its own body, it always is. But it has not struggled, and so far, it has not been hurt. The very idea of mercy in return for obedience is ludicrous. And yet, Callum’s hand has remained, soft and gentle on its back, seemingly with no purpose other than to comfort. It had frightened the vampire, at first, thinking it was being held down. But time is trickling by, and the hunter’s hand has stayed.

It’s the longest the vampire can ever remember being touched without pain.

But as the hours tick by, even the vampire’s distance from its own body can’t ease the growing discomfort. With its arms bound behind its back, most of its weight rests on abused ribs. The pressure from being slung over the saddle is becoming harder to ignore.

The transition from uncomfortable to painful takes several hours, and as it happens, the vampire only clenches its jaw shut tighter. The creature doesn’t understand what is happening, or where it is being taken. But it is determined to stay quiet, and still, and obedient. The muzzle could be put back on at any time. Its ribs are not broken, just sore. And it is still covered by the bag, keeping away from the scorching sun. This is still better, the vampire reminds itself, even as tears of pain start to prick at its eyes. This is still better.

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The villain cornering the weakest and crouching down to their level, only to gently take their arm and examine their scars. Scars their leader gave them for failing to follow orders.

They couldn’t breath, they could only watch in horror as the villain strode directly towards them, eyes locked on theirs. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and as the villain knelt down in front of them, all they could do was close their eyes.

They waited. They expected agony, broken bones or burns or- They felt gentle fingers on their wrists, softly grazing the scars there.

“I didn’t do that…” they whisper, and the sidekick manages to open their eyes. The villain was holding one of their hands, examining the markings along their arm.

“Who did?”

They didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

“Who. Did. This?”

“H-Hero.” They squeaked, trying to pull their hand away but villain was too strong, they didn’t even seem to notice.

“You’re coming with me.” the villains voice was shaking with rage, sending the sidekick into a panic.

“What?! No, wait-“ the villain scooped them up, their struggles and protests ignored, “Let me go, please!”

They start to sob, scrabbling at the villain. “He’s going to be so angry, please, no, please..”

It was a short drive back to the headquarters, with sidekick buckled in and the door locked. They leaned their head against the car window and sobbed, and the villain was trying to think of the best course of action. They couldn’t go soft, of course not, but this kid needed help…

The headquarters was the penthouse of Orange Grove Apartments, a glistening building of shaded glass and metal.

They pulled up and parked in front, and they turned to the sidekick, huddled in the passenger seat, shaking like a leaf.

Don’t go soft, don’t go soft... they think to themselves.

“Hey.” they reach over, shaking they gently by the shoulder, “Listen to me.”

There’s a small “Mmhmm” noise, but that’s it.

“Sit up straight, and look at me.”

They obey, forcing themselves to look the villain in the eye. They don’t look as terrifying now, sitting beside them in the drivers seat.

“We’re going to walk in the front door and into the elevator. No messing around.”

They nod. What choice did they have? They’d learned to keep quiet, keep their head down, it’s what they always did. They didn’t want to get hurt anymore. But it was just the beginning wasn’t it? The villain would take them upstairs and then…

More tears fell as they got out of the car, the villain taking the sidekicks hand. They tell themself that it’s just to keep them from running away, that’s it. Nothing more.

That’s what the sidekick tells themself too, disgusted with how grateful they are for the warmth, the lack of what pain they could be causing.

The lobby is wide and open, but what the sidekick mostly noticed was the floor. They kept their eyes on it, head down, silence as death. It was beautiful grey and black tiles that shone like water, and they could almost see their reflection in them. The villain pressed the up button, waiting for the dial to drop to 1, before climbing into the elevator and inserting their penthouse key.

The elevator took them up, and deposited them directly into the villains “living room”. The sidekick took a quick glance, and all but collapsed in tears.

There was a big metal table in the middle, a glaring light above it, and terrible looking metal instruments on a tray beside it. Restraints dangled over the side and the side kick wished they had died before getting into that car.

The villain didn’t understand what they were crying about, but didn’t ask. They probably had lots of things to cry about, and so the villain merely scooped them up again, setting them gently on the table.

They struggle violently as the villain tries to get a better look at their arms. “Stop. Or I’ll have to tie you down.” they threaten, holding onto their wrist but they keep struggling.

“Fine then.” The villain genuinely didn’t want to do this, would rather just fix them up normally but at this rate that would take days.

The sidekick is weak, easy. Their wrists are so thin that the cuffs go down to their tightest setting with plenty of room to be comfortable, and the sidekick goes limp, arms held down by their sides and legs held down to keep them from kicking.

“No, no, please don’t do this, please, I don’t know anything, he doesn’t tell me anything I promise…” the sidekick.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It’s like the sidekick can’t even hear.

“I don’t know anything I promise. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I don’t know! I’ll listen better I promise! I promise, please-“ their voice is cut off with a hacking cough, and the villain lays a hand on their chest, rubbing in circles, trying to ease a little of the pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’ll be better next time, I will.”

“What are you talking about?”

They don’t respond, merely crying louder and turning their face away. The villain grabs their chin, turning their face back towards them. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t, please no more, I’ll be good, I’ll be good…” they cry, seeming not to be even looking at the villain, but past them, and they realize that this is way worse than they had thought.

The sidekick seemed lost in their own head, like they were having a night terror or…

Rage flared up in the villain. It was a trigger, a memory.

They undid the straps immediately, scooping the sidekick up and hurrying away from the table and the bright light, into what could be more accurately called a living room.

They laid the sidekick across the couch, damn it all to hell, they were going soft and it was the right thing to do. “Hey, you’re not in trouble. You did good, you- you did it right.”

The sidekick perks up slightly, eyes still vacant and glossy. “Yeah. You did really good. You need to rest now though, okay?”

“Yes sir..” they managed, breathing slowing down a little as they relaxed into the couch, “I’ll be good..”

*applause* I love this prompt, and @justbreakonme executed it wonderfully. I love it so much.

When the caretaker knows they shouldn’t give into the conditioning, they should destroy the “good and bad” narrative, but the whumpee is so broken, so terrified and weak and literally will not move from fear that they’re “being bad”. So the caretaker gives in. Showering them with praise, telling them that they were being so good, just to get them to take some medicine, eat some food, and sleep. They tell themselves that they could start tomorrow, but right now it was better to keep them alive.

part one (not mandatory)

The day after the letting inspection, Jim came home to find that Ty had made the house spotless.

 For a few seconds, he marvelled at the pristine welcome mat, the neat and shining row of shoes, the sparkling mirror in the hall. Ty had done this, and it looked amazing, and…oh. Oh no.

 Jim left his bag on the floor, chucked his coat over the banister and called, “Ty?”

 A clatter, pattering feet, and Ty arrived into the hallway, coming to a stop within arms reach and then, to Jim’s horror, dropping to his knees.

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Squeaky Clean

Fandom : NA

Characters : Daniel, Legion

Whump : Punishment

[ Based off of @comfy-whumpee’s Whump Prompt 11 : Soap Punishment ]

—

Daniel is quite possibly the best boy Legion’s ever seen. He’s smart, and he’s beautiful, and he always does whatever he’s asked. But sometimes, he acts out. That’s perfectly normal, he supposed, but he wasn’t trying to make Daniel normal. He was trying to make him perfect.

Currently, Legion is forcing a bar of soap passed his lips, into his mouth. Pressed against a wall, held there by an arm that might as well be made of iron, Daniel doesn’t have anywhere he can go, doesn’t have anything he can do other than try to use his tongue to stop the soap from going down his throat.

“You know I don’t like doing this,” Legion said, voice quiet but still rough. “But you just keep breaking rules, Danny. This is what happens when we break the rules, when pretty boys say things they shouldn’t. You know that, don’t you?”

The angel tries to nod, but can’t quite manage. He can’t do much of anything, his entire being focused on not swallowing, and not biting down on, soap. It doesn’t really matter what he tries to do. The bar is so big, and it’s being pushed so far back that it brushes the back of his throat, and his teeth sink down - just a bit - unintentionally.

It has the consistency of cream cheese gone sour, and the very thought makes him nauseous. There’s spit pooling in his mouth, and combined with the soap, he’s beginning to drool bubbles.

“You’re doing so good,” Legion coos, looking at him with care, despite how his actions scream that he’s doing otherwise. “You’re almost done, I promise.”

It still feels like an eternity before the pressure goes away from his mouth, and he can let it fall from his mouth. His entire mouth is coated with partially dry soap, and spit, and entire chunks from where it got stuck behind his teeth. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, all he can do is put his hands on his knees as he spits out soap. He can’t even wash it with water now, he doesn’t think he’d be able to let it in. He tries to just keep spitting it out at Legion’s feet, using his tongue to get out the chunks.

His entire mouth feels like it needs to be replaced.

Legion rubs circles on the angel’s back. He holds out a bottle of water, which Daniel takes. The first sip is immediately spit out. He does this repeatedly until he can actually hold it in his mouth, swishing it around before spitting it out again. His mouth still tastes terrible, and almost numb.

Standing up straight, he notices he’s been crying. Weak.

“How do you feel?” His captor asks sweetly, watching his expression carefully.

“I feel...” Daniel pauses, but sighs, knowing what he wants to hear. “Clean, Legion... Squeaky clean...”

—

Daniel blinks, eyes lifting away from the bar of soap and up to his own reflection. He sighs, watching himself. Maybe it would be better to just miracle them clean this time around...

Cuddled up to warmth, arms around his shoulders and hands on his back, Lux snuggles closer as he wakes up. He’s curled between Emory and the mattress, the bed somehow curling up on one side to go vertical… no, this is a couch. Did he fall asleep watching a movie with Em again? Lux tucks his face into his boyfriend’s shirt and gives a soft, sleepy hum.

Fingers slip into his curls and the warlock makes a contented sound. It’s snug under the big, heavy arms, breathing deeply against a broad chest, the familiar smell of… of… this isn’t what Emory smells like. Or their couch, or their house. Lux frowns, eyes still closed.

A kiss is pressed to the top of his head, the hand in his hair shifting to hold the back of his neck, to keep him in place. A big hand. A jolt of icy terror shocks Lux into trying to plant his palms against the chest and push, desperate to get away.

“Nnnh, no, no, please, l-let me go!”

The Hunter chuckles and holds Lux down more firmly. “Keep struggling and I’ll break your arms, little one.”

The warlock flops down at the threat with a shudder. He knows just how easily that can be done. Another shiver as his back is rubbed calmly, as his curls are carded through.

“H-h-how… I was, I was s-safe…”

“Yes, you were home. Never safe, but you were there. I missed you, so I brought you here. Don’t worry, darling, I’m not going to keep you. I just wanted to hold you for a bit.”

How did he take Lux? Why, why, just to hold him? Lux can barely breathe through his panic.

“Ple-ease - please, let me, I wa-anna go h-home, let me go, I don’t want to b-b-be here.”

“Shh, my light, you’re ruining the moment. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?” The hand pressed to Lux’s back could easily shove magic in, could break his ribs or steal the air from his lungs or cut into old scars or burn deeply. Lux makes a quiet frightened sound at the thought.

“S-sorry.”

“I forgive you. You’re afraid, I understand. You know how much I want to hurt you, and how easy it would be. To touch here…” A calloused hand grips faintly around one aching shoulder. “...And snap this joint. Just break it, twist it all wrong. Pull your arm up behind you back and quiet your screams by touching here,” A hand to Lux’s throat, “And squeezing until you pass out with your little pleading whines.”

Trembling, his breaths shallow, Lux waits for the pain to start.

“...But I don’t need to do that to make you obey. You’re already a sweet, loving boy. You know to cuddle closer, and to say how grateful you are for my mercy.”

Disgust and horror coil heavily in the warlock’s gut. He isn’t like this anymore, he doesn’t shake and whimper and beg on command. He tries his best not to, at least.

He just has to prove that he remembers how to be good, though, and he might not get hurt. He’s been getting used to living without the constant threat of fresh agony - Lux can’t bear the thought of losing that.

“Th-thank you,” He mutters, frozen for a moment. Then, he inches up, unfolding his arms to wrap them around the Hunter’s torso, tucking his forehead against the man’s shoulder. The Hunter smells so familiar, he can’t help the flood of memories that comes with the smell. Lux is surviving, he’s doing this to make it back home, to be held by Emory instead.

“What a sweet boy,” The Hunter praises, rubbing circles into his back, and Lux does his very best to relax. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe it’s not real, maybe he’s really home safe - fingers brush against his temple and Lux panics. He jerks up, shoving himself away so hard that he tumbles off the couch and hits the floor, scrambling back with wide eyes. He’s not chased and pinned, just watched. The Hunter smiles.

“I was just touching your hair, my light, I wasn’t going into your head.”

Lux can’t control the quaking of his body, the ragged raspy gasps. “I wanna g-go home, please, I wa-as good, too s-scared to, to relax again, please don’t pun-nish me, c-c-can I g-go home, please?”

The Hunter sits up, then stands, towering over the cowering warlock. He doesn’t look angry, but Lux’s heart is pounding so hard, so fast, that it feels like it’ll escape from his chest.

“Alright, little one. I’ll take you home.” He reaches out his hand, offering to help the scared boy up.

Lux stares. He lifts one tremulous arm, placing his wrist in the man’s palm.

The Hunter grins bigger, fingers curling around the joint. “I was asking for your hand, darling.”

Lux’s stomach drops, his throat clogged with fear. His arm is allowed to slip down a bit, though, until his hand is being held instead of his wrist. And then he’s hauled up to his feet, one hand between his shoulder blades to steady him.

“Let’s take you home to your sweet Emory, hmm?”

Feeling faint, Lux lets himself be led out, eyelids fluttering as they step outside as if he’s been in the dark of the cellar for months again. It feels like those big hands will never be off of him - but then he’s allowed to get into the pickup truck, and he's not being guided anymore now that he’s sitting. Going home. He stares at the grass and the sky and the road, afraid to look over as the Hunter gets behind the wheel, afraid that his freedom will be yanked away at the last second. Lux hugs himself and stares out the window, breathing silently and not moving a muscle. Any stray movement or sound could make the Hunter want to break him further.

Crying - Comfort Edition

The caretaker finds the whumpee in tears, flinching away from them and begging not to be punished, they’re sorry they’re so useless and worthless and stupid, and they’ll try harder, and be better, they promise.

So the caretaker holds them, and gently pets their hair, telling them that they’re good and important and strong and loved, and they don’t deserve pain, while the whumpee gently shakes and sobs in their arms.

It takes a while, but eventually the crying turns into quiet whimpers, before ceasing altogether. 

Whumpee has been conditioned by the whumper to associate torture with certain words. Just as they’re starting to show progress in their recovery, Caretaker unknowingly lets one of the trigger words slip and turns to see Whumpee in a ball on the floor, shielding their head and pleading hysterically. “No, please, please, not again! I’ll be good, I’ll be nice, sir, I promise, please –”

Table.

The whumper had quickly gotten tired of the whumpee and their pleading. They stopped talking to them, stopped mocking and threatening them. They only tortured them.

Somehow, the silence was worse.

It was just a few words that broke it, all of them commands. Eat. Stand. Kneel. Sleep. Don’t sleep.

Table.

The last one was the worst by far. It didn’t refer to a kitchen table -they weren’t allowed to sit at that one- but a metallic torture table. The whumpee had to lay on it as soon as they heard that word, and from that moment on, everything was pain.

They were tortured for hours on that table. The whumper used to talk to them, sometimes to explain exactly what they were going to do so they could watch the whumpee despair as they squirmed in immovable bonds.

But now it was just their own screams they heard. And when the whumper got sick of them, too, they gagged the whumpee. And then it was only silence, but for the sound of the whumper’s tools and the muffled cries that the gag couldn’t completely silence.

After rescuing and taking them in, the caretaker was the first person to talk to them. Really talk to them. About the whumpee’s injuries, the weather, some book. They didn’t like the silence any more than the whumpee did. Or perhaps they could sense the whumpee’s unease in a completely quiet room.

Soon, the whumpee began to speak, too. It was always just a few brief words, but the caretaker would still smile and praise them for it every time.

And then the whumpee would speak more. They were even beginning to enjoy talking to the caretaker. Every time they rubbed their shoulder lightly and said “keep it up!” the whumpee promised themselves they would keep it up.

It was all so great, like a dream. They should have known that they’d have to wake up, eventually.

“I brought your favorite!” the caretaker called from the door while they removed their shoes with one hand, a plastic bag in the other. “You just sit down at the table, I’ll-”

They were cut off by a loud noise.

Rushing to the kitchen, they found the whumpee standing there, completely still.

They had been washing the dishes at the time, after insisting that they didn’t want to sit in their room all day anymore, they wanted to be useful too.

Their hands were bloody, and there was a broken plate in the sink, but the whumpee’s eyes were fixed on the caretaker.

“You’re bleeding,” the caretaker said with a frown, and took a step forward.

The whumpee flinched and moved away, their back finding the wall.

“[Name]? What’s wrong?” the caretaker asked, stopping in their tracks.

The whumpee slid down the wall and hugged their knees, doing their best to make their thin body look even smaller. Blood smeared their pants as they pressed their palms against the light-colored fabric.

That word did not match the caretaker’s sweet, oh so very sweet and gentle voice, and yet the memories wouldn’t stop. They could see them, the whumper, like they were right in front of them, getting closer now, too close, they could see them and, and that table–

“N- No, don’t…” the whumpee whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please…”

They knew they weren’t supposed to speak, and they were only making this worse, but they couldn’t help it. The caretaker had kept telling them to speak. They could finally hold a proper conversation, and they enjoyed talking to the caretaker, why did they have to stop now?

Why did they have to stop again?

The caretaker watched them silently, their mouth wide open in shock, but useless. They couldn’t think of anything to say, let alone utter it.

“I’ll be nice this time, I promise! I’ll be good, and I- I won’t call you by your first name again,” the whumpee said in a trembling voice.

It had been a real struggle to convince the whumpee that it was okay to call them by their name and without honorifics. The caretaker hadn’t realized that it still bothered the whumpee this much.

“And I- I’ll sleep on the floor, like I’m supposed to, and I won’t ask you for food again, I… I’ll do whatever you say, just please, please don't–”

The caretaker took their hand, and only then did the whumpee realize that they had approached them and were now crouched on the floor next to them.

“Don’t what?” the caretaker asked quietly, feeling stupid and utterly useless. “[Name], what did I say?”

What did I say wrong?

“I’m sorry,” the whumpee said, mistaking the caretaker’s question for impatience and shakily getting back on their feet. “I’ll- I’ll get to the table. I’m sorry.”

The caretaker also stood. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to…” they said with a frown, trying to keep their tone as gentle as possible.

The whumpee looked like they could barely hear them by now. Their whole body was trembling violently, and the caretaker still had no idea why.

“Sh- Should I get on the… the kitchen table?” they questioned quietly.

They didn’t want to be tortured. And they didn’t want to be tortured by the caretaker of all people. They had promised they wouldn’t hurt them, but the whumpee should have known it was all a lie. It was their fault, they should have known.

For some reason, the whumpee still couldn’t bring themselves to hate them. They owed the caretaker way too much for that…

“You can just sit down on the chair, if you don’t mind,” the caretaker muttered, still trying to figure out what it was they had done wrong.

The whumpee still looked like they were lost in their own head. Their lips parted, and there was a pause before they whispered, “May I please ask what I am being punished for?”

The caretaker blinked. “What?”

“So that I’ll know not to do it again,” the whumpee said.

They felt miserable asking that, but they had to know. The whumper had always made sure they knew what they were punished for. Even if they were punishing the whumpee on a whim, the whumper still told them.

But the caretaker wasn’t like the whumper. Surely they wouldn’t punish the whumpee without a reason. The whumpee had to know what it was, so that they could make sure they wouldn’t do it again, ever.

And maybe if it didn’t happen again after today, they could just forget about it and keep living with the caretaker in this beautiful dream, as if nothing had ever happened…

“What do you mean?” the caretaker asked. “[Name], you haven’t done anything wrong! I only asked you to sit down so we could eat.”

The whumpee looked up at them, clearly confused. “Really?”

“Of course!”

What else could they possibly have meant when they said…

“I won’t be tortured?” the whumpee murmured warily in obvious disbelief.

Oh.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, god, [Name], no!”

The whumpee flinched at the their tone, but the caretaker couldn’t stop. “How could you think that I would ever, ever lay a single hand on you?!”

The whumpee shivered and slid down the wall again, as if their legs couldn’t hold their weight anymore. They curled up into a ball and apologized desperately, “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

The caretaker cut them off by pulling them into an embrace. The whumpee panicked and struggled at first, but then finally surrendered to it as the warmth of the caretaker’s arms overpowered their fear of being hurt.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” the caretaker whispered, rubbing the whumpee’s back soothingly. “When I took you in, I promised I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?”

The whumpee nodded mutely against the caretaker’s shoulder.

“I’m not going to hurt you, ever. And neither is anyone else. I’ll make sure of that.”

The whumpee nodded again.

“And you don’t have to call me anything but [Name], understand?”

Another nod. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, are you hungry? If you don’t like eating at… in the kitchen, let’s eat on your bed, okay?”

I’ll be allowed to eat, even after all this…

“It’s fine,” the whumpee muttered, their eyes finally focusing on the caretaker. “The t- t… the t- table’s fine.”

“No, that’s okay. You can go upstairs and get comfortable, I’ll bring trays.” The caretaker smiled. “I got you your favorite from that place we ordered from the other day.”

They stood up and offered the whumpee their hand.

“O- Okay,” the whumpee said, getting back on their feet with the caretaker’s help. “Th- Thank you, [Name].”

Once the table was out of their sight and they were sitting safely on their bed, the caretaker sitting across from them and making cheerful talk about this and that, the whumpee felt like they could finally breathe again.

Maybe this was more than just a dream, after all.

A caretaker finds the whumpee in horrid shape. They’re malnourished, clothes stained in blood, and their hair is a greasy tangled mess. They help them back home to take care of them, and the first thing they do is get the whumpee their favorite meal. However, the whumpee politely declines it stating that they’re not hungry when it’s obvious they are. They then lock themself in their bedroom, and refuse to come out, refusing to take any food from the caretaker.

I love this trope, too!

One of my fave variants is the idea that the whumpee is returned/rescued after being imprisoned. But while they were captive, they weren’t allowed to use beds, blankets or pillows unless they earned them - maybe by giving up info, or enduring torture, or obeying humiliating commands - and they haven’t been able to break out of that mindset yet.

So the caretaker, maybe the tired stoic leader type who can’t sleep without reassuring himself that the whumpee is safe, sneakily checks up on them in the middle of the night. Caretaker quietly opens the door to the whumpee’s room to check on them and is shocked to find them curled up on the floor, as far from the bed as they can get, shivering and clearly uncomfortable. Maybe even bleeding from a wound that they’re lying on on the cold, hard floor.

Oooh, a fun variant on that variant: the whumpee has been back with the team for long enough that they’ve more or less recovered from their conditioning. However, they still have tendencies to view the bed or other soft surfaces as rewards - something they’ve tried to keep hidden from the team.

Perhaps they’ve slowly requested, over months at a time, for their plushier chairs or surfaces in their quarters to be replaced by harder surfaces. Their once-fancy ergonomic and comfy desk chair is replaced by a rigid and bare bones metal chair. Their couch has been removed and a modern (enough not to raise suspicion) bench has replaced it. They asked for their mattress to be replaced with as thin a mat as they dared request and got rid of one of their extra pillows. 

Then the whumpee still reverts to sleeping curled up on the floor as far from the bed as possible on occasion. Namely when they feel they’ve fucked up. But even sometimes when they don’t - they just have episodes when they can’t sleep if they try to sleep on the bed, but they sleep fine curled up far away from it. Maybe they even sleep in the chair or on the bench occasionally.

Bonus round: the whumpee gets sick and, in their feverish/ill/addled mind, they reveal to the team just how fucked up they’ve gotten. Though the team tries to keep them on the (”what the fuck? what did they do to the bed?”) bed while wrapped up in blankets, they keep pushing off the bed and curling up in the corner, abandoning the blankets. They eventually give up trying to get the whumpee to the bed and just try to pile blankets/pillows around them (”huh? didn’t they have more pillows than this?”), but the whumpee keeps shifting them off and pushing them away. All the while, the whumpee is just completely out of it, not really knowing what they’re doing. 

Bonus-Bonus round: the uncomfortable confrontation with the team when the whumpee gets better. The bleeding heart of the team is crying, thinking they’ve failed to help enough. The rough-around-the-edges can’t understand why the whumpee isn’t more bothered by their seeming lack of progress in recovery. The fierce one is raring to find someone bad to fuck up over it. The leader is trying to get everyone to calm down. The medic and/or second caretaker is/are trying to keep in context that the whumpee’s mostly recovered but still recovering and it hasn’t been that long yet.

And through all this, the whumpee is desperately trying to express how they are better, but there’s just some things and habits that are gonna take longer to die out - or may never die out - but that they’re safe now and that’s what matters. Plus the mat really is comfortable, and they actually prefer firmer surfaces now - better for their back. But it’s really sweet how everyone’s worried, but please... they’re kinda making the whumpee feel like a freak.

continuation of this drabble, in which lux asks emory to hit him.

While Emory answers the door, Lux hurries to the bathroom and panics, quickly and quietly. Glancing into the mirror reveals a face messy with blood and tears, cuts at his cheekbone and lip and eyebrow leaking blood. He definitely looks like he was beaten brutally, which makes it hard to remember that Emory did it, and that he asked Emory to - begged him, even.

The wounds are a bit too fresh, but maybe they’ll hold up to scrutiny. Lux wipes away the blood with a wet washcloth and washes his hands. They shake under the stream of cold water.

Then, he leaves the bathroom and walks back out into the living room. He forces himself not to freeze or show his fear when he sees the cop standing there, talking to Emory.

“Lux,” The cop says, remembering the name given to him last night when he drove Lux home. “Just stopped by to check in, make sure you got in okay and saw to that eye.” He watches Lux approach. None of them sit down on the couch. “Any chance you remember what your attackers looked like yet?”

Moving to stand next to Emory, Lux shakes his head, wincing when it makes his head throb painfully. “No. It was dark, and, and I didn’t see it coming.”

The cop nods, thumbs tucked into his belt. He’s in his uniform, which means his belt is bulky, a two-way radio clipped to the front and a gun resting in its holster at his hip. “Understandable. You took a good few hits to the head, too.” He steps forward, and Lux tenses. If it’s noticed, it’s not mentioned.

“Yeah, tha-, thank you for getting me home safe, officer.”

A gruff nod, and a step closer. Lux’s hand slips out of Emory’s as he determines that he’s being singled out, studied. He doesn’t want Emory to be watched with this kind of careful attention, doesn’t want his scraped knuckles to be seen. Lux can see Em’s bloodied shirt crumpled up and discarded on the floor in his peripheral vision.

“You know, I could’ve sworn your lip was split in a different spot, and your cheek was busted up worse,” The cop muses. He takes Lux’s chin in one hand, pushing lightly to see the damage better. It’s a slightly too-hands-on gesture, too forthright, but to Lux he may as well be pinned, the grip on his jaw may as well be bruising. He’s scarcely breathing.

“You seem scared, Lux. Are you afraid of something?”

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Tropes I adore

-Characters who are constantly in fight or flight mode relaxing enough to fall asleep on the couch around others, and those others draping a blanket over them.

-Touch starved characters getting group hugs from their found family.

-When something important that was once taken away is now given back, ie a photograph, a book, a freedom even.

-A character that’s always trying to be the protector or the hero finally getting to the breaking point.

-“Are you okay?”

“No, no I’m not, I’m not okay and I need help.”

-A character with self esteem issues pushing themselves to prove they’re “worthy” to belong in their group, only to burn themselves out. Then, they’re taken care of by the rest of the group, and all the feels come out.

-A good shower after escaping something awful and the character sinking to the floor with a sob, letting their feelings out where no one can see or hear them.

-Tomboy basically adopting the whumpee and having to deal with emotions and other obligations they had intentionally avoided, under the guise of being masculine/ “not like other girls”

Frayed Wires

“Mistress?”

The girl looks up, a screwdriver stuck between her teeth. “Freya, it’s Freya.” She says gently, setting down the tool and spinning around on her chair. “What’s up Zero?”

Freya.

Zero.

It would have to remember this, remember what It’s new mistress preferred. She was one of those. The ones who liked to use names over titles.

Mistress Freya was frowning at It, her head tilted like a bird. “You okay? You can come in, if you want.”

It did. Sliding into a nearby chair, trying to calm down.

“I…..permission to ask a question?”

“You don’t need to ask permission.” Mistress Freya says lightly, patting It’s knee.

“When……when are you going to…..modify me?”

Mistress Freya’s eyebrows pull together, confused. “Modify?” She repeats. “I don’t understand. Is something wrong?”

“I am wrong.” It answers promptly. “You can fix me.” It pauses. “You have been kind to me, I will not fight back.”

“Why would you fight…..” Mistress Freya trails off, anger flashing like alarms across her face.

It panics, already It has done something wrong. But Mistress Freya has been kind, It will not fight.

Frantic, desperate to please her, It grabs a screwdriver. Before Mistress can blink, It jams the tool down into It’s arm, prying the panels back and exposing the delicate wires.

“Zero!” Mistress Freya cries. “Zero, stop!”

Obediently, It stops. It holds out the tool, offering up It’s newly exposed arm.

“Why did you do that?” Mistress Freya cries, scrambling over to It.

It braces for pain.

Instead, Mistress Freya tucks the wires back gently. She hisses under her breath at the damage, biting her lip as she closes the panels correctly.

“No……..” It cannot think of a word. It uses a human one. “No….pain?” Robots were machines and machines did not feel pain. It winced, preparing for punishment, but there was no other word It could use.

Mistress Freya looks up, worry creasing her face. Slowly, she drops to her knees, between It’s legs.

“Zero,” She says quietly, taking It’s hands in her own. “No. No, I would never, will never do that to you.” Her fingers rub over It’s knuckles, leaving greasy smears on the metal. “No one will ever do that to you again. I promise.”

“But…..” It shouldn’t argue. It knows better. Still….

“But….I….I am wrong and you are my owner. You are my mistress, you must fix me and make me good and-”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Mistress Freya cuts It off. “Nothing. And I’m not your owner, not really. I’m your friend.” She smiles, warm as the sun. “And you’re mine. If you want.” She adds quickly

What does It want? It considers this as Mistress Freya stands back up, squeezing It’s hands as she moves.

It thinks that…..it would like to be Zero. Would like to be Freya’s friend.

Freya.

Freya who asked Zero what his name was when they met. Freya who soothes as she heals, murmuring and apologizing and comforting. Freya who didn’t want to modify Zero, only to heal. Freya with the grease on her face and the tools in her hair and the sun in her smile.

Freya.

And Zero.

Yes, he thinks he wants to be Zero.

He didn’t understand.

All his life, he’d been held at arms length, kept at a distance like something diseased. He’d been hit, kicked, slapped, punched, but the ache building in his chest hurt almost as bad. He felt gentle arms wrap around him, and held his breath in fear that he’d sob aloud. He couldn’t, he had to pretend that it didn’t matter, that his heart wasn’t shattering and reforming over and over. He could never remember anyone hugging him like this and he couldn’t bear to scare them off. So, he held his breath, and hugged back. But what he hadn’t expected was for them to whisper in his ear. “Just tell me when to let go.” It was soft, and kind, but it meant that he would have to speak, somehow.

He held his breath as long as he could, but finally it was too much. A small squeak of a sob escaped, and he apologized, but they just help him closer, soothing him with a gentle “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

They seemed to pull him closer, rubbing his back softly and most of his control broke. He sobbed pitifully into their shoulder, apologizing every time he had enough breath to do so.